Dead Days
by Avogadro's Minion
Summary: Another crazy night in Vegas - tonight, trouble seems to be cropping up on college campuses. What will the team find? Set somewhere around Season 4-5. Reading and reviewing are both highly encouraged; flames will be summarily laughed at. Written as a sequel to my earlier CSI piece, Xenophobia, but can easily stand alone as well. Rated primarily for language.
1. Prologue: Lost and Found

**Prologue**

Carlie's breath twinkled in clouds and fogged up her glasses as she walked across campus. They always said that snowstorms in Las Vegas were a once-in-a-blue-moon event. Tonight, at least, that was true - a freak cold weather system had blown in from Canada in the wee hours of the morning, blanketing the Las Vegas area in seven inches of heavy wet slush, canceling local schools, and grinding traffic on the strip to a screeching halt. Now, though, the snow was petering off, drifting down in slow gentle flakes, and a bona fide blue moon was beginning to break through the clouds. A junior chemistry and astronomy major, Carlie had had to laugh at the few students milling outside on this Friday night, griping that the moon was not, in fact, blue.

Children had gleefully spent the day off playing in the snow, for many the first time they'd ever seen it, while adults either rejoiced over the impromptu three day weekend, groused over the cold and the house full of hyper children, or cursed the snowy streets because they did _not_ have the snow day off. Carlie... whistled happily as she made her way back to her dorm. She was originally from Michigan's upper peninsula - she didn't mind snow, and she had _seen _cold; tonight's 28 degrees Fahrenheit didn't even come close, in her opinion.

"What's that noise?" There didn't seem to be anyone there, and the snow muffled sound, but Carlie thought she heard someone crying. "Anybody there?" Stepping off the sidewalk, she trudged through the snow to where she thought the sound had come from. Stepping around the bushes, she came into the glow of a street lamp, where she found a sobbing young girl, maybe six years old at a guess, shivering in rain boots over footed pj's and a windbreaker far too light for the temperature outside. She was pulling a little red wagon with, presumably, her baby brother. There was no adult in sight. "Well, hello there - are you okay, kiddo?" Carlie asked, squatting down to the child's eye level.

"No... Can... Can you help us?" Mommy had said not to talk to strangers, but surely, this must be an exception?

"Definitely," Carlie assured her, setting her hand on the girl's shoulder. "First, we need to get you inside - you're not dressed to be out in this slop. Why don't you climb in the wagon, and I'll give you a ride. It's not far."

"Thank you." She paused. "Is where we're going safe? There aren't any bad guys, are there?" she asked as she got in the wagon and set the baby in her lap.

That question set Carlie's mind to racing as she pulled the wagon down the sidewalk to her dorm, considering what could possibly have these two children out alone late on a cold night. "Definitely no bad guys - in fact, no one can even get in without one of these cards," she assured the child as she pulled out her student ID and waved it over the proximity reader to open the door.

"That's good."

Heading to the elevator, Carlie escorted the two kids up to her room and unlocked the door. "Here we go," she said cheerfully, not bothering to take off her rose and silver parka as she grabbed the quilt off her bed and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders, then grabbed a heavy sweatshirt from her closet to get the baby warmed up - he looked about six months old, and under the circumstances, she was relieved to see him responsive enough to be fussy. "My name is Carlie - what are your names?"

"I'm Millie Pratchett, and this is my brother, Max."

"Do you like hot cocoa, Millie?" Carlie asked, starting the electric water boiler going. She was concerned about hypothermia, and wanted to get some warm fluids into her new friends.

"My favorite! Mommy and Daddy say Max is too little, though."

"Yep, he is. Does he like apple juice?"

Millie nodded. "Max loves apple juice." She paused. "Carlie... I think there are bad guys at my house..."

"Do you know your address, Millie?" Carlie asked, shifting Max to her hip and grabbing the cordless phone from its cradle.

Millie nodded. "768 Sassafrass Lane."

"Thanks." She dialed a four digit extension, then cradled the phone to her ear with her shoulder while she retrieved a bottle of apple juice from the mini-fridge, poured some into a mug, and put it in the microwave for twenty seconds.

"Hello, CAPC Campus Security - Kirk Carlyle speaking."

"Kirk - thank God you're on duty tonight. I promise I got the weirdest emergency you'll see all weekend."

"Carlie - you okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine - I just found two kids alone out in the snow; sister's early elementary, brother's an infant. Millie tells me there are bad guys at home - I need you to get LVPD to 768 Sassafrass Lane, pronto. Better get paramedics and Social Services up to my room too; I don't think they're hypothermic, but I don't want to chance it."

"Carlie, anyone else, and I'd be asking if you were drunk. We'll have emergency personnel at both locations in five minutes. What's your dorm room?"

"Olsen 409."

"Got it - see you in a few."

"Thanks, Kirk - you rock." Hanging up the phone, she poured boiling water into a small ceramic teapot and added cocoa mix. Filling two mismatched mugs two-thirds full, she topped them off with cold milk to bring them down to drinkable temperature, then added marshmallows. "Here you go, Millie," she grinned, pulling out a bag of Oreos as well before sitting down to try and get some warm juice into Max from a mug he hadn't learned to drink from yet.

"Who was that, Carlie?" Millie asked taking a cookie.

"That was a friend of mine in Security - they're kinda like the college's own little police. He said he'd send the police to your house to make sure everything's okay. And they'll get some people up here to make sure you and Max didn't get too cold out there." She shifted Max in the crook of her arm. "Come on, little guy - sorry, I don't have a bottle. There you go, that's it."

"Wow - I didn't think Max knew how to drink from a big kid cup," Millie mused, watching over the rim of her cocoa mug.

"I don't think he knew he did either," Carlie laughed. "But I want to get something warm into him, and apple juice is the only thing I have in here that a baby can have. And all my cups are tea mugs." No sooner had Carlie and Max mostly mastered the art of the mug, there came a knock at the door.

"Carlie? It's us."

"Come in, Kirk," the college student called back, looking up.

Kirk stepped in followed by a paramedic, and a Las Vegas police officer.

The officer glanced at Kirk. "Dang, Kirk – until we stepped in, I still wasn't sure someone hadn't been pulling your leg."

Kirk shook his head. "Not Carlie – she wouldn't give me the run-around over something like this." He grinned at her. "I think some introductions are in order, Carlie."

"Definitely," Carlie agreed. "This is Millie Pratchett," she said, nodding to the girl. "And this is her little brother, Max. I saw them out in the snow, and figured they needed to get warmed up. Millie, this is my friend Kirk – he's way awesome, and makes sure everyone around here is safe."

"And these are my friends Officer Davis, and Jeff," Kirk grinned.

Jeff knelt down to Millie's level. "Okay, Millie," he smiled. "I'm just going to take your temperature, okay?" As Millie nodded, Jeff glanced up at Carlie. "Good call on the cocoa, by the way. What's that you're giving Max?"

"Just some warmed-up pasteurized apple juice – real juice, none of that corn syrup crap. I'm originally from Michigan – I know a thing or two about the cold."

Millie smiled, managing to keep her squirming to a minimum as Jeff stuck a thermometer in her ear. "Would you like some cocoa? Carlie makes the best!"

"Maybe in a bit, sweetie," Kirk smiled.

Just then, Officer Davis's radio crackled, and he excused himself outside the room. "Roger that. Call CSI out to both locations."


	2. Chapter 1: The Body in the Library

**Chapter 1**

"Damn it, Missy, do you _want _Kessler to kick our collective tail into sometime next week? I know fresh snow is like crack to malamutes, but geez... Hush!"

"Woo-oof! Woof!" The dog jumped up, putting her front paws on her human's shoulders. "Rowf!"

"What the hell, Missy? You know bett-" Knocked off balance by the large dog, Amelia went over like a ton of bricks. She tried to catch herself on Kessler's office door, but the unlatched door gave way beneath her weight like a child's block tower, and she fell flat on her face.

"Woof! Grrrrr..."

"Missy, what _are _you going on about? Sorry about that, Professor Kessler, I don't know what's gotten int-" Amelia finally managed to brace herself on her elbows enough to look up from the floor of the doorway where she'd gone sprawling. She screamed.

* * *

"All right everyone, here's the caseload for tonight. Greg, Catherine, you've got one case with two locations. A student at Christ Alone Presbyterian College found two small children alone in the snow, saying that there were, and I quote, 'bad guys at home'. Student called 911, uniforms responded and found evidence of a break-in. Talk to the kids and the student, process the crime scene, and when the parents regain consciousness, talk to them too." Grissom passed Catherine a manilla folder with the pertinent details thus far known about the case.

Greg peered over Catherine's shoulder as she leafed through the folder's contents. "Two kids, ages six and five months; one college junior; two parents with moderate to severe concussions and miscellaneous other injuries - most seriously, a broken femur; and a train wreck of a crime scene," he nodded. "Looks to be all the makings of an exciting Friday night. Where shall we start, Catherine?"

"Let's head to CAPC and talk to the little girl and the student while their memories are still fresh," the senior forensic scientist nodded. "Our crime scene isn't going anywhere."

"Rodger-dodger," Greg nodded. He looked over at the rest of the group. "What have you guys got?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "One location... with two cases."

"They related?" Sara asked.

"Not so far as we know. Sara, you and Nick are heading out to the UNLV library - a student working at the circulation desk saw someone having a seizure, went to try and keep him from giving himself a skull fracture on the granite floor, and noticed a dead body in a nearby study room."

Nick nodded, taking the file folder. "Cyanosis... looks like we may be keeping Annie busy in Tox."

"If the baby doesn't get to her first," Sara agreed, alluding to the very pregnant lab tech.

"What does that leave us, Gris?" Warrick asked.

"UNLV professor Anthony Kessler, dead."

"Okay, dead how?"

"Found hanging in his office."

Nick shook his head. "Damn, Friday nights in the frat house were never as crazy as this..."

* * *

"What's that?" Sara asked, pointing to a shadowy tall white figure on a nearby quad as she and Nick cruised up to the UNLV library. "A snow sculpture? But of what?"

Nick glanced over and smirked. "Well, doesn't that just bring back memories," he snickered as he parked the Tahoe. His headlights now illuminated where a student or students had... ahem, _erected _a rather crude six and a half foot tall snow sculpture. "A snowman... hood."

The 'art' now in plain view, Sara rolled her eyes. "How _very_ mature - _somebody_ around here has been studying anatomy; always nice to see tax dollars going to practical use." Her expression changed to one of confusion as she stared at the lower part of the sculpture. "Are those... pine branches?"

"Yep. Nothing quite like the... creativity of college students, no? Come on - our crime scene won't wait all night. Anyways, it's cold out here."

"You said it." Stepping into the library, the two CSIs found Detective Jim Brass standing next to an area directly across from the circulation desk, cordoned off by police tape, while several uniformed officers kept curious onlookers to a respectful distance. "Fill us in, Brass," Sara nodded.

"A student with a work-study job at the circulation desk saw a patron having a seizure - she jumped the desk to help the guy and told her boyfriend to call the paramedics. While she was down on the floor, she was able to see through that window," he said, pointing to a darkened study room on the other side of the tape. "At that point she told her boyfriend to call us in too."

Kneeling down on the floor, Nick pulled out his maglight and pointed it at the window - from this angle, he could just make out the lower body of a corpse. "Makes sense - that window's at floor level; it's meant to let in light, not distractions. From the desk over there, you wouldn't see beans through it."

"Where are our good Samaritans?" Sara asked.

Brass nodded over his shoulder to where a young couple wearing jeans, hiking boots, and fleece pullovers sat cuddled together on a comfortable-looking couch tucked away under a stairwell. A couple of officers stood nearby. "Over there. Esmerelda Weatherby and Julian Carmichael. She's a bit shaken up."

Sara nodded. "I would be. Anything fishy about the seizure?"

Brass shook his head. "Nope. Caleb Jenson is a diagnosed epileptic - exams are next week, and he told the paramedics the seizure was probably simply due to sleep deprivation."

"All right," Sara nodded. "Let's start with that study room. Is the coroner here yet?"

"Right behind you," came a voice.

"Hey, Super-Dave," Nick grinned. "After you."

Leading the way into the small room, David knelt down beside the body as Nick printed and then flipped the light switch. "Definitely got some cyanosis here," he observed. "No rigor mortis..."

"We 'll want to get that coffee cup to Annie," Sara observed, photographing, printing, and then bagging the cup. "We got an ID on John Doe here?"

"I'll check his backpack... yeah, here's his wallet," Nick nodded. "Student ID and Nevada driver's license both say he's Marcus Wagner. Nineteen years old, student ID says he's a sophomore... Hey, what have we got here – well, well – _another_ Nevada driver's license. Same name, same guy – different birthday."

"Well, it looks like our friend Marcus didn't spend _every_ Friday night in the library..." Sara observed.

"Guess not..."

"Based on his liver temp, I'd say Marcus here died about three to four hours ago," David nodded, looking up from the body. "Did you want to process him here, or at the morgue?"

"Morgue," Nick and Sara said in unison, not looking up from their respective tasks. "Not enough space in here," Sara added.

"Right. I'll see you back there, then," David nodded, heading out with the body.

"Be right back, Sara – I wanna check something right fast," Nick said with a frown.

"Hit the lights on your way out?" Sara requested, pulling out her ALS.

"Of course." Turning out the light and shutting the door behind him, Nick turned back towards the room. "Sara," he said sharply. No answer. He tried again, a bit louder. Still nothing. He shouted and still got no response. Satisfied, he stepped back into the room. "Unless you were ignoring me, these rooms are pretty much soundproof," he reported.

"I didn't hear anything. Good thing they've got a fire alarm in here, then."

"And if there was any kind of struggle, no one at the circulation desk would have heard a thing. Speaking of struggle, any blood?"

"One small spot on the carpet by the door – could be our vic's, or it could be that someone studying in here got a nasty paper cut. But there are _plenty_ of other bodily fluids," she said wryly, nodding to her growing collection of neatly labeled swabs.

"_Anatomy_," Nick smirked. "I'm gonna go talk to Ms. Weatherby – even if she didn't hear anything, maybe she saw someone come in or out of here."

Sara nodded. "Good thinking. I'll finish up in here – there's not room for two in any case."

Nick walked up to where his witness was sitting – presumably with her boyfriend, given that his arm was around her shoulders and she had her head on his chest. "Ms. Weatherby? Mr. Carmichael?" Nick said quietly, stepping over with Brass following close behind. "I'm Nick Stokes from the crime lab, and this is Detective Brass with the LVPD. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you're up to it."

The girl looked up and nodded. "Please, call me Esme," she said. She made no move to get up, but nodded slightly to a couple of nearby chairs.

"And I'm Jules," the boy added, reaching around Esme to shake hands.

"Pleased to meet you," Nick nodded, sitting down as Brass followed suit. "I wish it were under better circumstances. Can you tell us what happened tonight?"

Esme nodded, sitting up a bit, though she didn't let go of Jules' left hand. "I work in the library – work-study, you know? I usually take a couple of afternoons a week on shelving duty and the Friday night shift at the circulation desk – most people don't want that one, but I really like it because it's usually really quiet. We normally close at midnight on Fridays, but we stay open til 3:30 during Dead Days."

Brass frowned. "Dead days?"

Jules nodded. "Yeah. Classes ended for the semester yesterday. Exams start Monday. The three days in between are known on campus as Dead Days. Everyone spends them studying, reading things they should have read earlier in the term, and writing papers."

"For the next three days, the libe's gonna be crazy-busy," Esme nodded. "I got in at 8pm, and was supposed to be here until midnight, but the guy coming in after me was sick, so I told him to get some sleep before exams hit, and said I'd go ahead and stay until 2:00 when someone could come in to relieve me."

Nick blinked. "Six hours? That's a long time for a student. Didn't you have studying of your own to do?"

"We're allowed to study at the circ desk when we're not actively checking things out. Anyways, I got lucky this term – no exams, just four papers, and I got a head start on them last week. I got the last of the drafts finished up at about... quarter after 11, maybe? And then I pulled my knitting out for a while to decompress."

"No exams? What're your majors that you managed that?" Brass asked.

"Officially, undecided," Esme answered. "We're only sophomores, so we don't formally declare a major until the end of spring semester. But I'm planning to major in educational studies and minor in english, and Jules is looking at a geology major."

Jules nodded. "And, alas, I have an exam waiting for me on Monday," he sighed. "Hazards of being a science major, or planning one. I came in at about 11:30 – I brought Es a cup of her favorite tea from the coffee shop in the student union, and then sat down with my laptop near the circulation desk to work on a paper until Esme was done with her shift so I could walk her back to the dorm."

"At about 1:30, I noticed a patron acting really strange – one second he was fine, then the next he looked glassy-eyed and disoriented," Esme continued. "I got up from my seat to ask if he was okay, but before I could say anything, he was convulsing on the floor. I jumped over the desk, turned him so he wouldn't choke, and put his head in my lap so he wouldn't crack his skull on the granite tile over by the circ desk. I shouted at Jules to call the paramedics."

"How'd you know what to do about the seizure?" Nick asked.

"We're both camp counselors in the summer time," Esme explained. "We're all first aid and CPR certified."

"Gotcha," Nick nodded. On closer inspection, their fleece pullovers, while different colors, had matching embroidered logos – 'Camp Kirkbrook Staff', with what he could only assume were names underneath. He raised an eyebrow. "Flip and Pippin?"

Jules shrugged, brushing a strand of honey blonde hair that had escaped Esme's braided pigtails back behind her ear and securing it under the earpiece of her glasses. "None of the staff go by their actual first names at camp," he explained, pushing a brown curl out of his own eyes. "We all use fun nicknames instead – it started some ten years ago when there were six girls named Emily and two guys named Josh on staff, and it kind of stuck. Esme's called Flip because she's a gymnast and loves turning handsprings, I got tagged as Pippin because I'm short and mischievous and I hate wearing shoes, and we call the lifeguard Shortie because he's 7'2"."

"Anyways, at that point, things started happening crazy-fast, and it all gets kinda jumbled," Esme continued. "I was down on the floor with the guy having a seizure, and at some point, I noticed something... wrong in that study room. It took me... gosh, it felt like forever to process what it was because there was so much going on."

"Well, you got my attention about it about two minutes into my call with 911, if that helps any," Jules piped up.

"Yeah, thanks," Esme nodded. "You can't even see that window from the circ desk because of the way the restroom hallway runs near it, so I wouldn't even have been able to see it until I got over by the elevator where the guy was, and I was trying to make sure he was okay, and tell Jules what was going on, but suddenly, I realized that there was someone lying on the floor in 1D with that motionless stare the movies have forever stereotyped as 'dead person'. I don't know how I didn't freak out then and there, but I managed to hold it together until the EMTs and campus police showed up. _Then_ I lost it."

Brass nodded, adding a few more notes in his notebook. "Did you see anyone come in or out of that room at all?"

"I'm sure I did, but I don't remember anyone or any time in particular – people have been in and out of all the rooms all day," Esme said shaking her head. "Still, there are only a few rooms down here – most of them are up on the upper floors where it tends to be freaky-quiet." She paused. "Wait... before I finished my papers... someone asked where a certain call number, an RS, would be shelved, and I wound up just showing them. You don't really walk directly past 1D to get there per se, but you can kinda see the door out of the corner of your eye. I think... I remember there was someone leaving. I can't tell you anything about them, though – I wasn't really paying attention to them, and anyways, my eyes are around 4/20; my peripheral vision is made of teh suck," she said, integrating the netspeak into conversation without a second thought.

"Do you know what time that would have been, Esme?" Nick asked.

"Let's see... I was working on the paper for Educational Psych, I think... maybe about ten or eleven?"

"Thanks."


	3. Chapter 2: Hanging in There

**Chapter 2**

Warrick parked the Tahoe outside the Science and Engineering building and nodded to Grissom. "There's Vega's Taurus. Let's go."

Grissom nodded in agreement. "Our crime scene is on the second floor."

Detective Vega was waiting for the two CSIs when they made it upstairs. "Vic is one Anthony Kessler, professor of physics. His TA for PHYS 120 came by his office to bring him some paperwork, and found him hanging from the light fixture. Her screams attracted some other TAs, and someone called 911."

"Any possibility it was suicide?" Grissom asked.

"Not unless he decided to redecorate his office in blood first," Vega said, shaking his head. "So, not out of the question, but pretty unlikely. Fair warning, it is _pretty_ gruesome in there."

"Who discovered the body?" Warrick asked.

Vega consulted his notes. "Amelia Ravi. She's working on her Ph. D in physics, scheduled to graduate next spring. She's in her office down the hall with her dog at the moment, we've got an officer with her, and one of the other TAs is in there as well. She was pretty upset."

Grissom nodded. "We'll get the scene photographed so we can cut the body down and get it back to the morgue, and then we'll go talk to Ms. Ravi."

Warrick nodded. "No sense keeping her here all night," he agreed as he ducked under the police tape and stepped around the corner to the grisly office, Grissom following behind him. ""Wait - stop." Opening his field kit, he bent down to photograph and swab a fair-sized spot of blood, surrounded by a few drips, on the floor a few feet inside the door. "All right, got it," he nodded, continuing into the room.

"Nice catch," Grissom nodded as both CSIs carefully stepped over the area.

"Man, Vega wasn't kidding," Warrick observed, pulling out his camera as he looked around. "Gruesome is right. One hell of a struggle went down in here; stuff's knocked over everywhere, and the glass is shattered in several of the frames on the wall. And there's bloody grafitti all over every wall - kinda hard to make out with the rust-colored paint, but the copper smell is unmistakable. You want the room or the body, Gris?"

"I'll take the body," Grissom nodded. What was left of the late Professor Kessler hung in the middle of his opulently furnished office, about four feet in front of his expansive desk. Grissom began the meticulous process of photographically documenting everything about where and how the body hung.

"All right, I'll take the bloody grafitti-fest," Warrick nodded. The writing and the many rough stick drawings of violent acts were at roughly chest height; a few had drips running to the floor. The stylized writing and crude sketches had similar angles which, combined with the general horror of the scene and the red-toned paint on the walls, made it all seem to blend together. He had to focus on one small section to make any of it out. But as he did... it hit him. "Grissom... This writing isn't in English; I don't recognize the language."

"Interesting," came the senior investigator's non-committal reply.

"I'll photograph all of this again once we add some luminol to make it easier to see," Warrick nodded, finishing his preliminary photos of the walls and moving on to capture some partial bloody shoeprints and a broken paperweight on the carpet.

"There are no stab wounds or bullet holes on this body, Warrick. There are ligatures and bruising, but the only thing that was bleeding are a few defensive wounds on his hands and a gash to his right temple – head wounds bleed heavily, but there's gotta be a few pints of blood at least on the walls, no way all of it came from our dead guy."

"Then whose is it?" Warrick asked, photographing smashed diploma frames.

"An interesting question - hopefully the DNA lab can get us an interesting answer."

* * *

"See you back at the morgue," David nodded, wheeling the gurney out.

"Go talk to our witness?" Warrick suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what they say - first witness, first suspect."

As David headed for the elevator with the body, Warrick and Grissom headed down the hall. "207C," Warrick said, scanning the nameplates lining the hall. "Here we go - Amelia Ravi." He knocked on the door.

There was a loud bark in reply, followed by a "Come in."

"Ms. Ravi?" Grissom said, entering with Warrick close behind. "I'm Gil Grissom from the crime lab, and this Warrick Brown. We'd like to ask you some questions, if we may?"

The young woman behind the desk nodded, gesturing to a couple of chairs in front of the desk. "Of course, have a seat. And please, call me Amelia - the physics department as a whole doesn't much stand on formality." Her last name and her skin tone suggested that she was of Indian descent, but her English was clear and unaccented. The celery green parka draped over the back of her chair suggested that she was rather better equipped for the weather tonight than many of Vegas's inhabitants.

A brown and white canine face emerged from under the desk, peering intently at the newcomers. "Woof!"

"That's enough, Missy," Amelia said, gently but firmly, before smiling apologetically to the two CSIs. "Sorry - she's all worked up because I got so upset earlier; makes her more defensive of me."

"Understandable," Warrick nodded. "She's got a gorgeous face - what kind of dog is she?"

"I call her a malador retriever - her mother is a chocolate lab, and her father is the dog who jumped the fence," Amelia chuckled. "Best guess is a malamute or husky-malamute mix. Between her webbed feet and her snowshoes, she's probably got about the single largest set of paws in the continental US."

"Nice – bet she's loving this weather," Warrick grinned, looking around the office as he took a seat. Amelia's office was a much smaller space than Kessler's, but the sky blue paint, blond wood furniture, and flowered curtains made it feel much more inviting - it felt more like a nice place for a friendly chat, and less like an inner sanctum into which any visitor was inherently an intrusion. Three diplomas - one from a Bangor, Maine high school, a bachelor of science from a small college in Maine, and a master of science from UNLV - were framed on one wall. On the wall opposite was a whiteboard covered in vector diagrams and physics equations in various colors of dry erase marker. The whiteboard seemed to be hung awfully low, Warrick noticed - it didn't look like it would be comfortable to write on at that height. And... odd, there seemed to be a large, somewhat dirty wet spot on the floor near the door. Doubtless, it was tracked-in snow which had melted, but off of what? The shape was quite odd – two parallel marks, rather too far apart and of entirely the wrong shape and size to have been made by someone's shoes.

"She may well be the only one in Las Vegas who is," Amelia laughed. "She thinks she's a puppy all over again. Me, I hate this slop – this is one of the things I left Maine to get away from," she smirked, sniffling slightly.

"Are you all right, there?" Grissom asked. Amelia had the beginnings of a black eye, and the tell tale signs of a very recent bloody nose.

"Shaken up, but I'm fine," she assured him. Then she caught what he was looking at. "Oh, that? I fell earlier. I'll be fine."

Some part of Warrick's mind – the part that had seen far too many domestic violence cases – couldn't help wondering if she had fallen, or if she had 'fallen'.

A young man who'd been perched on the corner of the desk took the entrance of the CSIs as his hint to make a tactful exit. "Amelia, I _need_ a latte; I'm gonna run by the coffee shop. You want anything?"

"An odwalla juice would be great - Strawberry C Monster, if they've got any left," she grinned back. "Thanks, Chris - you rock."

"Boyfriend?" Warrick asked once the office door had closed.

Amelia shook her head. "I confess, if he were to ask me out, I wouldn't say no, but at the moment, no, we're just close friends. He's another TA in the department."

"What can you tell us about Professor Kessler, Amelia?" Grissom asked. "Was he well-liked in the department?"

Amelia snorted. "Hardly. Jesus and his mama probably loved him, but I doubt you'll find anyone else around here who did."

"Why is that?" Warrick asked, raising an eyebrow. "Harsh grader?"

"No. Harsh grading is what I do - you want full credit on my exams, you'll show your work and explain your answer. You want top score on a paper or lab report, you'll use proper spelling and grammar, cite every source, and kindly save the BSing your way through it for another class. But I make sure everyone knows that at the beginning of the term, and if you make an honest effort to answer the question, I'll give you partial credit. Incidentally, I've got a wait list half a mile long for both my classes next term ." Amelia raised an eyebrow. "I assume you'd prefer I skip the pussy-footing around about not speaking ill of the dead and cut to the real reason nobody liked the guy?"

Grissom nodded. "Please." It was nice to have a frank witness who didn't need to have such information dragged out of them.

"If you were Caucasian, male, and tenured, Kessler was a rude and arrogant prick. If you were any two of the three, he was a rude and arrogant _condescending_ prick. If you weren't either male or tenured, you were fair game for whatever small-minded, mean-spirited bullshit he found himself in the mood for that day. My idea of a fun class is making a reference to Spiderman or the Death Star in a lecture or getting an entire lecture hall groaning at bad math puns. His idea of a fun class was seeing how many female students he could make cry - waving failing test grades around in front of the class, insulting their intelligence over minor mistakes and being generally crude and demeaning, going on at length in the middle of class that science in general and physics in particular was _man's _work, and women should keep to the nursing program, or, better still, the kitchen – that kind of thing. Things he just didn't do with the guys. Not if their melanin count was low enough to sunburn, at any rate. He was a racist, sexist, homophobic ass. I, you may have noticed, am neither Caucasian, nor male, nor tenured. As a completely unapologetic Indian feminist, he couldn't stand me, and the feeling was mutual. For all that, though, he and I had a certain grudging respect for one another. Many other students were not so lucky."

"Why is that?" Grissom asked.

"I saw the man for the bully he was, and called him out on it, but even I have to admit that he was a brilliant physicist and an expert in his field. He respected the fact that I busted my ass enough to force him to give me the A, even with his, frankly, blatantly biased grading practices. More than that, though, I think he respected me for the fact that I wasn't afraid to stand up to him. When he gave me crap, I calmly told him that I was having none of it. I've dealt with my fair share of bullies, and I've learned not to take their nonsense. Didn't raise my voice, didn't stoop to insults, didn't cry - at least, not in front of him. I think it about drove him crazy, but in the end, I was... something of a worthy adversary."

"What was his area of expertise?" Grissom asked.

"Classy, even if the man himself wasn't." Amelia caught the questioning glances. "Sorry – too used to the jargon. Kessler wrote the book on Classical Mechanics. Literally."

"Gotcha. But if he was that bad, why was he still around?" Warrick asked.

"The _official_ reason is because he was, as I said, an absolutely brilliant physicist, and one of the leading experts of his generation when it comes to classical mechanics."

"And the unofficial reason?" Grissom asked.

"_Politics_," Amelia replied, spitting the word out as though it tasted foul. "And its old friend, _funding_. In addition to bringing in a lot of grant money simply by being a very active and very respected researcher and publisher, Kessler's uncles' dog's nephew's sister's old college roommate, or some equally convoluted relation, is a major benefactor both of the engineering program and the university as a whole. Said benefactor is a major contributor, in particular, to the pet project of the Dean of Science, Engineering, and Technology. Dean Radcliffe may have hated Kessler's guts – and it's no secret that he did – but he _does_ like grant money. Consequently, Kessler was slapped on the wrist the few times he crossed the line into sexual harassment, and anything less than that... let's just say, many blind eyes were turned over the years."

"Okay – so, if you didn't like Kessler, and he didn't like you... how'd you wind up as his TA?"

Amelia shrugged. "Someone had to do it. _None_ of the TAs liked Kessler, and he didn't care for any of us either. I said I'd do it because one, I simply like TAing the intro class – aside from my own specialty of electricity and magnetism, it's one of my favorite classes to teach because it has a wide variety of content; keeps things interesting over the semester – and two, I would rather it be someone who he can't intimidate. Both the other TAs who had room in their schedules to take that class are on the list of 'people he's made cry at the front of a lecture hall'. I didn't want to put them in that position again if I could help it."

"Can you tell us where you were between 8:00 and 10:00 tonight?" Grissom asked.

"In the math lab over in classroom building, from about 7:00 until just after 11:00. I had a pre-exam review session with a bunch of my students from PHYS 226 for an hour, and then I spent the next three hours helping the math TAs out with tutoring – there's some nasty flu bug going around campus right now. A couple of their TAs are home, trying to keep down something other than gatorade and ginger ale, and there are quite a few undergrads panicking over calculus with exams coming up, so I said I'd lend a hand. When I wasn't tutoring, I was sitting in the math lab, grading for PHYS 120."

"Can anyone verify that?" Grissom asked.

"Sure, I can get you the names of the math TAs I was with," Amelia nodded, taking a post-it note from her desk and writing down a couple of names and phone numbers. She passed it to Grissom, then peaked under her desk.. "Watch your tail, Missy.," she nodded before looking back up. "I think I know where this is going, and there's a minor detail you should probably know about. Aside from the fact that I'm a pacifist..." Bracing her palms on the edge of her desk, she pushed her chair back, revealing that it was, in fact, a wheelchair. A scuffling of paws could be heard beneath the desk, and Missy came out, setting her head in her mistress's lap. She was wearing a service dog ID vest over some sort of medical harness. "I don't have the physical capacity to have gotten up there and tied off that rope, let alone gotten him into it."

"Ah," Warrick nodded. Amelia may have had motive, but it didn't look like she had either means or opportunity. They would have to find out who did... "What happened, if I may ask?"

Amelia nodded. "It's no big secret – it's a birth defect. I've got a lower skeleton that's put together bass-ackwards, and neuromuscular problems to go with it. Then I went and developed _very_ early osteoarthritis a couple of years ago. Never rains but it pours;" she said wryly.

"How does it affect your physical abilities?" Grissom asked.

"It's a chronic pain condition, with all the joys that that entails – I'm on enough prescriptions that I have to be very careful what OTCs I take and anything recreational like, say, alcohol is out of the question. Some days I'm good to go with my day-to-day pain control and maybe an anti-inflammatory for the arthritis – others, I need 12 milligrams of fentanyl before I'm physically capable of getting out of bed. On reasonably good days, I can walk with forearm crutches – how far and how fast varies depending on the day that you ask me; it's far more tiring than using the chair, and gets much more difficult if I'm already having a bad pain day. Cold and humidity are bad – my family will tell you that I've been predicting storms with better accuracy than the Weather Channel since I was about four years old. Consequently, in bad weather, I mostly use the crutches for transferring from the chair to the car and the like, though I try to be up and around for an hour or so a day when I'm feeling up to it. Without crutches, walking is out of the question. I tire easily, I tend to drop small objects very easily, and when I'm tired, my speech tends to slur a bit, but aside from that, I function mostly normally from the waist up."

Warrick nodded. "All right. How did you discover the body?"

"I left the math lab at about ten after eleven – I had told Kessler I'd have the grades as of the end of class to him by 11:30."

"Wait – eleven thirty at _night_?" Grissom asked.

Amelia nodded. "Kessler was a night owl – I don't think I ever even heard of him being on campus before noon, and he was usually in his office from about 6:30 or 7:00 to around midnight. Turns out twenty minutes wasn't long enough – when I got over here, I discovered that someone had parked in the priority space without tags, leaving the only parking at the bottom of the hill. It's a steep grade, and difficult for me to get up under the best of circumstances, and the slush makes getting around with wheels much, much harder. By the time I got up here, it was 11:40, and it went without saying that Kessler would be fit to be tied. I had a whole bunch of muddy slush stuck in my spokes and I didn't care to be yelled at for tracking that as well, so I parked my chair in here and headed down the hall with my crutches. I've been feeling this storm coming since about noon yesterday, so I was walking even slower than usual, took me a good five minutes or more probably to get down there. Halfway down the hall, Missy started going absolutely ballistic, barking her head off."

"Was that normal for her?" Grissom asked.

"Absolutely not. It was beyond weird – like all service dogs, she's very well trained, and I've never known her to bark without reason when she's wearing her vest. At first, I figured she was maybe just excited about the snow. But as we got closer to his office, she was getting more and more worked up. Just as I was about to knock, she actually jumped on me. For a mobility dog, that's an absolute no-no; and I've _never_ known her to do that. In retrospect, I can only conclude that she smelled that something was very, very wrong, and was trying to keep me away from it. My balance is very poor under the best of circumstances, and between me and a 75 pound dog, it isn't even a contest – I went over like a feather. I tried to catch myself on the door – I guess it wasn't latched; I hadn't noticed between being in a hurry and trying to get my dog to shush – whatever the reason, it didn't take my weight, and I faceplanted in the doorway."

"Is that how you got that black eye?" Warrick asked.

Amelia nodded. "I must've fallen on the handle of my crutch. My pain threshold is high enough, and I was already hurting enough from the weather, that in all honesty, the black eye didn't even register – I didn't notice until Chris told me. I only noticed the nose bleed because it was dripping all over my hand once I got up. _Not_ the sort of thing to make me feel better after seeing that, believe me."

"I can imagine. What happened next?" Grissom asked.

"Getting up from the floor is difficult for me – Missy wears a specialized harness to help me up, but I can't use it flat on my face like that, and there wasn't room in the doorway for me to turn over. At first I couldn't see much of anything aside from Kessler's carpet, but I eventually managed to get my elbows under me enough to be able to look up. That's when I saw Kessler. Becky and Jason tell me I screamed like a banshee; they heard me from their offices at the end of the hall. Jason and Chris helped me up and got me back here – I was pretty weak in the knees by that point and didn't trust my balance even with crutches – and Becky called you guys."

Grissom nodded. "We'll need your fingerprints to eliminate yours from our crime scene. If you wouldn't mind, I would also like a DNA sample to identify any blood that may have fallen when you fell. I can get a warrant, if you would prefer."

Amelia shook her head. "Won't be necessary – there's no sense in making your job more difficult, or, for that matter, in pulling a judge out of bed at... whatever ungodly hour it is right now; time loses all meaning during Dead Days. I'll be happy to give you whatever you need."

"Thank you for being so understanding," Grissom nodded. "We'll also need to print Missy, and your shoes and crutches.."

"Can be arranged," Amelia nodded, whistling for her dog. "So is that called a four-card, or what?" she asked, smirking slightly.

"Works for me," Warrick laughed. "But you first. How far into Kessler's office did you go when you discovered the body?" Warrick asked, pulling out a ten-card and an ink pad.

"Let's see – I'm just under five feet tall, and Missy tripped me up about a three feet outside the doorway... Accounting for forward momentum, trigonometry says my nose probably met the carpet about two to three feet inside the door. At any rate, wherever I landed is how far in I went – when Jason and Chris got me up, we certainly didn't go further in. And Missy didn't go in at all – she'd have had to literally walk over me."

"And here I told my high school math teacher I'd never have a use for trig in the real world," Warrick laughed. "All right, let's get Missy's four-card – do you have any suggestions as to the easiest way for her?"

"Front paws will be easy – back paws might be a challenge," Amelia replied. "But let's see how it goes. Missy, sit." Once the dog had complied, she gently touched the back of one front leg. "Give." Setting Missy's paw in her lap, she nodded to Warrick. "All right, you should be good to go for the first one – I want to get her used to the idea before we start messing with her back feet."

"Right," Warrick agreed, printing Missy's front right. "One down, three to go."

The front left was printed without incident. Now for the hard part. "Missy, up." She set one hand, palm up, by her wheel. "Step." As the dog put her paw in her hand, Amelia nodded to Warrick. "All right, now try." She scratched the dog behind her ears with her free hand. "Easy girl – you're all right. That's it, I won't let you fall."

At last, Warrick was done with all four paws. "Sorry about that, Missy."

Laughing, Amelia reached into the pocket of her cargo pants and extracted a dog treat. "Give her that, and all sins will be forgiven," she grinned.

"All right – here you go, girl," Warrick said, giving her a scritch.

Tail a-wagging, Missy happily chomped her treat.

Grissom, meanwhile, had already printed the crutches, tape-lifted some carpet fibers from them, and readied a swab. "All right, just open wide – don't even need you to say 'ah'" he nodded.

"Can do," Amelia nodded.

Grissom nodded, sealing and labeling the swab. "I think that's all we need for tonight – if we have any more questions later, we'll let you know. Are you going to be all right getting home? You've had a pretty big shock." Crime scenes involving hangings tended to be among the worst, as far as shaking people up.

"I _definitely_ shouldn't be driving," Amelia agreed. "Chris said he'd give me a ride home; we live in the same building." She looked up as there was a tap at the door - a very precise rhythm, clearly some sort of standing signal. _Tap... Tap... Tap-Tap... Tap-Tap-Tap._

"Fibonacci's sequence," Grissom stated.

Amelia nodded. "Yes," she grinned. "Come on in, Chris," she called.

"One Strawberry C Monster, coming right up," the young man grinned, waving the plastic bottle. "Last one," he laughed.

"Fabulous," Amelia laughed. "Last thing I need before exam week is the Math Plague."

"No kidding," Chris laughed. "You about ready to head for home, 'Melia?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."


	4. Chapter 3: Tea Time in Olsen Hall

**Chapter 3**

"This way," O'Riley said as he met the two CSIs at the entrance of Olsen Residence Hall and opened the door from the inside to let them in. "Our witnesses are up on the fourth floor."

Catherine nodded. "Lead on."

Heading down the hall to room 409 from the top of the stairs, O'Riley tapped on the door. "CSI's here," he said, loudly enough to be heard from inside.

"Come on in," a voice called back.

The CSIs walked in on a tea party. An assortment of desk chairs, bean bags, video rockers, and disk chairs had been pulled up around a small table, which looked suspiciously like a large plastic storage crate with a flattened cardboard box and a beach towel on top of it, set with a teapot and an assortment of mismatched mugs of hot cocoa. There was even an Erlenmeyer flask full of pipe cleaner flowers. Gathered around were a uniformed CAPC security guard, a social worker from Child Services, a young 20ish woman with frizzy fiery red hair - clearly the dorm room's resident - and a young girl with dark hair in pigtails who looked to be in maybe about first grade, wearing heart-printed footed PJs and Hello Kitty rain boots. A baby slept in a purple polka dotted beanbag, a half-empty bottle of formula nearby - clearly, Alex had come prepared.

"Alex - good to see you again," Greg grinned, waving at the social worker.

"Likewise," Alex grinned. "Have a seat. Meet Kirk Carlyle, a security guard at CAPC; Carlie Miller, a CAPC junior; and Millie and Max Pratchett. Guys, this is Catherine Willows and Greg Sanders from CSI - they're our experts at tracking down bad guys," she said, including the first grade level explanation for Millie's benefit. The tea party, combined with the assurance that Mommy and Daddy WOULD be okay and bad guys couldn't get in here, had done wonders for the child's nerves.

"Hi, Millie," Catherine said, sitting down next to the girl.

"Hi, Mrs. Willows!" Millie said brightly, helping herself to another Oreo.

Catherine smiled. "Tell you what, honey - how's about you just call me Catherine."

Carlie looked around. They were out of chairs. "Here, Greg - why don't you take my seat?" she suggested, getting up from her pink plaid disk chair. "I can move up to the bed." She paused. "Actually, it's getting pretty crowded in here - would it work better if I stepped next door to the floor lounge for a bit?" she asked, giving the CSIs a tactful avenue to speak with Millie in private if they needed to.

"That would probably be easiest, yes," Catherine agreed, giving the student a nod of grateful appreciation.

"Thanks," Greg added, taking a seat in the chair she'd just vacated.

"No problem - I've got homework to keep me busy anyways," Carlie grinned. Grabbing an iPod and headphones from her desk, she slung her tie-dyed backpack over one shoulder. "Come find me if you need me."

Millie looked up at the frizzy redhead. "You will say good bye before I leave, won't you, Carlie?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course," Carlie grinned, giving her a fist-bump on her way out the door.

"Can you tell us what happened tonight, Millie?" Catherine asked gently.

"Max and I had already gone to bed. He was still asleep, but I woke up because I was thirsty. I keep a sippy cup of water in my bed so I don't have to go to the kitchen when that happens. I got a drink, and I was just about to turn the lullaby CD back on and go back to sleep when I heard a loud crash from the living room, and a tinkling sound - you know, like when you drop a glass, and it breaks?"

"Yeah, Millie," Greg nodded. "Then what happened?"

"There were strange men shouting - I didn't know their voices. They were yelling at Mommy and Daddy, saying they had to tell them where Max and I were. Mommy lied and said we were visiting our grandma. One of the bad guys said he didn't believe it - he used a really bad word that I'm not s'pposed to say, or I have to go sit in the Uncooperative Chair. Hey said... he said they would take me and Max away and hurt us if they found us." Millie started sobbing. "Max hadn't woken up, but I was really scared."

"It's all right, Millie," Alex said, wrapping an arm around the little girl's shoulders. "You're safe now."

Greg felt powerless. He was good with kids, but what could anyone possibly say to that? He decided to let the two moms take the lead for the moment.

"I know that was really scary," Catherine agreed, setting a hand on Millie's shoulder, while some back corner of her mind ran through all the things she would like to do to the bastards responsible. "What did you do?" she asked several minutes later once Millie had calmed down.

"I was afraid the bad men would come to our room and find us, so I got Max out of his crib and sneaked out to the garage with him."

"Wow, you're very brave, and very smart," Greg told her. "How did you reach to get Max out of the crib?"

"Sometimes Daddy's back really hurts, and that makes it hard for him to pick us up very high. So Max's crib has one side that swings open - kinda like the gate in the backyard. I don't think Mommy and Daddy know that I know how to open the latch." She paused, sipping her cocoa. "I'm not big enough to carry Max for very far, so when we got to the garage, I put him in my wagon. I didn't think I had any shoes in the garage, but then I remembered that my boots were still out there, 'cause they got all muddy the other day. My heavy coat wasn't on the rack out there, 'cause Daddy had to put in the dryer after I got all wet playing in the snow. I could still hear the bad guys banging around inside, so I grabbed my purple jacket and Max's stroller blankie and sneaked out into the backyard with the wagon, then opened the gate and went out into the street. I didn't stop to put my jacket on and tuck Max in until I got around the corner, where the bad guys wouldn't see us."

"How'd you decide where to go, Millie?" Alex asked, curious.

"All the houses on my street were dark. But there were lots of lights down here, I thought maybe there would be someone who could help us. But when I got down to where the lights were, I didn't see anybody. I was cold, and sad, and really scared - I was trying really hard to be brave for Max, but... I started crying. But then Carlie came along - I asked her if she could help us. She said she could - she told me to get in the wagon with Max and brought us up here and got us nice and warm, and called the police to catch the bad guys. She's really nice, and really smart."

"Wow, Millie - you did a really good job handling that all by yourself," Catherine told her. She was impressed - Millie had pulled her little red wagon nearly a mile before Carlie had found her in the snow, no small feat for a _very_underdressed first grader. "You were very brave - being brave doesn't mean not being afraid; it means doing stuff, even when it's scary."

"Max is very lucky to have you for his big sister," Greg added. "Now, Millie, how would you like to help us catch those bad guys and make sure they never scare little girls ever again?"

Millie nodded. "Send those meanie meanpants to the Uncooperative Chair," she agreed triumphantly. Then she cocked her head to one side. "But... I'm only six... well, _almost_seven... How can I help?"

"Well, Catherine's and my job is sorta like putting together a really big jigsaw puzzle. Everywhere people go, they leave a little something behind. For instance, Catherine could take this mug I've been using, find my fingerprints on it, and know that I was the one who had been using it. And look at the bottom of my shoe and the bottom of Kirk's shoe - if you saw both our footprints in the snow, could you tell which were whose?"

"Yeah," Millie giggled. "Your shoes have squares on the bottom, and Kirk's have lines."

"Right! And all of those little signs that people leave behind are the pieces of our puzzle. Now when we go to your house to look for the pieces the bad guys left, we'll also find things like your fingerprints - it's your house and you touch things there everyday, so your fingerprints are _supposed_to be there. So we have to know which fingerprints are yours and your Mommy and Daddy's so that we know which ones are left over and might belong to the bad guys."

Catherine nodded. "You can help us by giving us the first pieces - each piece gets us a little bit closer to seeing the whole picture and knowing who the bad guys are."

"Okay!" Millie nodded.

Alex felt her cell phone vibrate with a text message. As Catherine and Greg set about getting fingerprints, shoe prints, and assorted trace from Millie and Max while explaining to Millie how the science would help to catch the bad guys, she sent a text back.

"All right - all done," Catherine told Millie. "You did a great job."

Alex grinned ear to ear - she got to give the best news. "Hey Millie - your Mommy and Daddy are awake, and they would love to see you and Max! Want to head to the hospital?"

"Yeah!"

"Awesome." She reached into a bag beside her chair and pulled out a first grade sized winter coat. "You might want that," she grinned. "And I've got a car seat for Max downstairs."

"Can we go say good bye to Carlie before we leave?" Millie asked, putting on the coat and zipping it up while Alex bundled Max into a bunting.

"Definitely," Alex grinned. "Let's go."

* * *

At last, Carlie stepped back into her now less-crowded dorm room - Alex and the kids were off to Desert Palm, and Kirk had headed back to the Security office in the student union, leaving just O'Riley and the two CSIs. She snapped her fingers, remembering something. "One sec - things were so crazy when I came in, I forgot to feed Liz and Iggy." Taking a cup full of crickets from a top the bookshelf, she shook several into a large aquarium in which two young iguanas lounged under a heat lamp. One iguana took the opportunity to crawl up Carlie's arm and perch itself atop her head. "Okay, Liz, I guess that works too," she laughed as Iggy chomped a cricket, legs sticking out of his mouth every which way. She looked around at the assembled company. "Uh, no one has any kind of lizard phobia or anything, do they?" she asked. "I can put her back..."

"Naw, it's fine," Greg assured her. He paused, a smirk crossing his face. Frizzy red hair, freckles, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pet lizard – just replace the khaki corduroys and flannel overshirt with a loud science-themed print dress, and she'd be a dead-ringer... "You ever dress up as Ms. Frizzle?" he grinned.

"Only every Halloween for the last eight years," Carlie giggled. "Those books and Bill Nye the Science Guy are the main reasons I'm double majoring in two sciences," she laughed.

"Which two?" Catherine asked.

"Chemistry and astronomy – the combination is a little unorthodox, but then again, so am I."

"We're sorry to have to keep you up so late," Greg said. "I know you probably have exams coming up."

Carlie shook her head. "For most schools, I'm sure it's going into hell-week right about now. But we're on trimesters, not semesters – our term is just beginning. Anyways, I'm a night owl. It's a good thing my roomie and I both sleep like rocks, or we'd have been at each other's throats by now," she laughed. "I'm usually up til 2:30 or 3:00, and Becky's up at 5:30 – not because she has to be, just because she likes it."

"Where is your roommate?" Catherine asked. With a bed lofted over a desk on either side of the room, Olsen 409 was clearly home to two people, but at 3am, the second occupant was nowhere to be seen.

"Out of town – she went home for the weekend. It's her little sister's sweet sixteen, and Becky and Maddie have always been super-close, so Becky decided to surprise her for her birthday. She left early this morning... well, early yesterday morning, I suppose, by this point. Good thing her flight wasn't any later, or I doubt she'd have gotten off the ground with all the snow."

Catherine nodded. "So, how did you come to be out at midnight?" she asked.

"Well, it's a college campus – it's not exactly unheard of around here. Of course, the fact that I was out at midnight on a Friday night and _sober_might be..." She shrugged. "I'm exaggerating, of course. But there probably were quite a few parties tonight to celebrate the first week of term."

"I thought this was a Christian school," Greg said.

"It is, to some extent. But the Presbyterians aren't teetotalers, and besides, the name is something of a holdover – the school _is_still loosely affiliated with the Presbyterian church, but not everyone here is Presbyterian, or even Christian. Just in this room, I am; Becky isn't. There's no requirement that you take a scripture based class regardless of your major or anything. Plenty of people are just here for a liberal arts education in a small campus environment. Anyways, anyone who's spent any time around anyone under the age of... let's give the young the benefit of the doubt and say 25... knows that the fastest way to get them to do anything is to forbid them from doing it. The official college policy on alcohol is 'please don't drink if you're under 21, mmkay?' The unofficial policy is 'if you're going to experiment, do it on campus where you won't be tempted to drive, and, for God's sake, tell us if you have a problem so we can get you the help you need.'" Carlie shrugged. "It works well – I daresay there will be a few hangovers by the time dawn rolls around, but we have very few addiction problems. As for why I was sober on a Friday night, despite being old enough to be legal, I don't care for the noise of the party scene, and even small amounts of alcohol give me migraines. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing ethanol is good for is as a lab solvent, hence the fact that I go out of my way to live on the substance-free floor."

Carlie paused, realizing she was getting off-topic. "Anyways, the Orgo 1 class prepped their first NMR samples today. Students don't get to go near the instrument unless they've either taken the NMR Ad-Lab class or are a professor's research minion, so the lab manager normally runs all the samples for classes below Ad-Lab 3 and drops the data to the campus network so that the students can process it. It all has to be up by Saturday morning, especially the first week of Orgo lab, because the majors will be busy all weekend showing the sophomores how the processing software works – there are only so many of us, and we want to be sure everyone can find some time for a crash course if they need one. Well, wouldn't you know it, the lab manager is a single parent, and he was stuck home with the kids when the elementary schools were closed. I'm one of Professor Evans' research minions, so I've got the training, and also the keys to the NMR lab. Oh, and no life, so I'm often available on Friday nights - I've been known to spend Friday nights babysitting for my professors, too. Daniel emailed me and asked if I could get the Orgo 1 samples run. I said that I could, but between swim team practice and my lifeguard shift at the pool, it probably wouldn't be until late. He said that would be fine."

"All right," Greg nodded. "So what time did you go to run the samples?"

"I finished my shift at the pool at 8:45, came back up here to set my gym bag down and remove excess metal and magnetic strips from my pockets, then took the shortcut to Mudd through the language complex and logged on to the NMR computer at about 9:30. We don't have an autosampler arm, so they all have to be loaded, shimmed, and run manually. I got the last one done at about 11:00, and had the data uploaded and the NMR lab locked up at around 11:30. I took the scenic route back behind the observatory back to the dorm so that I could watch the moon coming out over the lake."

"Weren't you cold?" Greg asked.

"Naw, I'm from Michigan – this... isn't cold," Carlie laughed. "Especially since I have the snow gear to deal with it. At this temperature, it's not the air temp that will get you in the most trouble, it's getting soaked to the bone."

"How did you find Millie and Max?" Catherine asked. "And when did you first suspect there was a problem?"

"There's a huge shrubbery right near where the sidewalk curves around from Observatory Hill, the thing is _enormous_– I think it's a lilac? Anyways, it makes kind of a blind corner. I couldn't see anyone around, and it's virtually unheard of for anyone to be hanging around on that part of campus on a Friday night, but I thought I heard someone crying. I figured I was probably just hearing things, but I went slogging through the snow towards the noise in case there was someone who'd slipped on the ice or something, and found Millie, standing under a street light with Max in the wagon." She shrugged. "I first suspected a problem when I saw two small children alone in the snow just before midnight, but my first priority was to get them inside before they developed hypothermia. I told Millie to get in the wagon, and I'd pull her the rest of the way. I first got an inkling of what the problem might be when she asked me if where we were going was safe, and if any bad guys could get in. I would have called campus security right then and there, but I had left my cell phone up here when I went to commune with the 500 MHz magnet, so I just told her that no, nobody could get in without an ID card."

"When did you call campus security?" Greg asked.

"As soon as we got up here and I grabbed a quilt for her and a sweatshirt for Max - Millie told me that she thought there were bad guys at home. I asked her if she knew her address, then called Security."

"Why Security?" Greg asked. "Why not 911?"

"It's what we're taught to do. Pulling a fire alarm will automatically get the fire department down here, but for medical or other emergencies, we call Security, because they have a direct line to 911, and it's faster than getting a line out on a campus phone. When Kirk picked up, I told him what was going on and told him to get the cops to Millie's address and the EMTs to mine to make sure the kids weren't hypothermic."

"You know Kirk?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah, we go to the same church. I hadn't realized he was working tonight, but I sure am glad that he was."

"You did really well with Millie," Catherine observed.

"I've always been really good with kids," Carlie nodded. "And my little sister is only a year or so older than Millie - Cassie is my little shadow whenever I'm home."

"Any other siblings?" Greg asked, curious.

Carlie nodded. "A brother. Cody is a freshman in high school this year. His favorite thing to do is kick my butt at video games," she laughed.

Catherine nodded. "Thank you for all your help tonight, Carlie'" she said as Greg carefully bagged and tagged Millie's little red wagon. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get your fingerprints before we go, to eliminate any that you may have left on the wagon."

"Sure," Carlie nodded. "Mine, not yours, Liz," she laughed as the lizard poked her head down between the rims of her glasses.

* * *

"Off to Sassafrass Lane?" Greg asked as the two CSIs left Olsen Hall.

"Shortly," Catherine said, shaking her head. "First, we're going to head up to Mudd Hall of Science, and take a little walk down behind Observatory Hill."

"Ahh," Greg nodded. "Millie and Carlie both have very distinctive tread patterns - aside from being size 'Tiny', Millie's puddle jumpers have hearts and flowers in the tread."

"And Carlie's hiking boots are from a company called Black Bear Mountain - I've never heard of them here, they're probably local to the Midwest. I doubt there are any others on campus with bear paw prints in a waffle sole. I want to trace exactly where they met up."


	5. Chapter 4: From Evidence to Data

**Chapter 4**

After tracing Carlie's steps down Observatory Hill to where she had happened upon Millie and Max, Catherine and Greg had made their way to the Pratchett residence, where they found chaos. "It looks like a hurricane rolled through," Greg observed. "Broken glass everywhere, a coffee table in pieces... I count six different bloodstains just from where I'm standing. You wanna go process the kids' room while I start on the wreckage in the living room?"

"Right," Catherine nodded. "I'll go around to the garage and come in from there, see if I can find where Millie came out."

* * *

Back at the lab, Grissom and Warrick came in with boxes of evidence, stamping the snow from their shoes. "I'll get the blood samples to Mia and Annie and meet you down in the Morgue, Gris," Warrick told his supervisor."

"Right," Grissom agreed, signing in the boxes and then heading downstairs.

Heading down the hall, Warrick tapped quietly on the door of the Tox lab before stepping in - Annie tended to startle easily. As usual, there was classical music playing quietly in the background, but the lab tech had switched up her composers. "Beethoven - Ode to Joy," Warrick said, stepping in. "No Bach?" he chuckled.

"Nah - be Bach later," Annie laughed, spinning her chair around from where she'd been processing data.

"Offenbach sooner," Frankie piped up, giggling, from where she was prepping samples in the fume hood. The intern and the toxicologist had much in common, and had hit it off; it was no secret that Annie was lobbying to get Frankie hired on as a lab tech when she graduated this spring, as she was professional, friendly, and damn good in the lab. When Annie had learned that she was pregnant and needed more intern help to avoid handling hazardous materials, Frankie had done some sweet-talking to get herself more-or-less permanently assigned as Annie's shadow until the baby showed up. It worked out well for both of them - Annie had the help she needed, and Frankie was getting more hands-on experience under Annie's watchful eye than she would have at any other crime lab in the state. A large sign had been mounted just inside the door of the Tox lab, reading 'Anne Frank jokes are not funny – violators will be required to pay chocolate tax'. And the amount of giggling emanating from the Tox lab had increased exponentially.

"Baby got Bach?" Warrick laughed.

"Oh, Baby got Bach, all right," Annie snickered. "And Offenbach, and Beethoven, and Pachelbel, and Chopin, and Handel – I think her favorite is actually Mozart, as much as it gets me kicked; I swear, she's trying to keep time."

"Does Scott like Classical music too?" Warrick asked.

"Oh yes – good thing too, or I'm not sure the marriage would've lasted three months," Annie giggled. "And I like classic rock, so we avoid the unending battles for control of the car stereo," she grinned.

"He getting excited about being a Daddy?" Warrick asked. The relationship between the night shift lab tech and the night shift police officer had been considered adorable by virtually all of Las Vegas law enforcement since its inception some three and a half years previously.

"Oh yes – his partner tells me it's absolutely adorable," Annie laughed. "But I know you didn't come down here to shoot the breeze – whatchya got for us?"

"Nine blood samples – five from walls, three from the floor, and one from a dead body. Full tox panel, please."

"Ooh, you said please – you just earned yourself next place in the prep queue," Frankie grinned, stepping over and taking the collection of neatly labeled samples.

"You've been dealing with Kyle's stuff again, haven't you?" Warrick smirked. The day-shift CSI was very good at his job, but notoriously cranky and somewhat lacking in manners.

"Yep," two voices said in unison.

"I better get these other samples to Mia and then go catch up with Grissom," Warrick nodded. "You ladies will page me when you have results, right?"

"Of course," Annie laughed. "Now shoo!"

"I'm goin', I'm goin' – but I'll be Bach."

* * *

Blood samples now delivered to various lab techs, Warrick headed down to the morgue. "What have you got so far, Gris?" he asked, putting on a smock and a pair of latex gloves.

"Check out these defensive wound on his hands," Grissom said, not looking up as he extracted something with a pair of forceps. "And then check this out."

Peering closely, Warrick nodded. "Foreign matter in his wounds." He took the forceps from Grissom's hand. "Green, convex, smooth, translucent... glass. Hit with a wine bottle, maybe? It would explain the gash on his head, too," he said, sealing away the glass shard in a labeled evidence bag.

"It would," Grissom agreed.

Something caught Warrick's eye. "There's a hair in this head wound," he said, carefully removing it with forceps. "It's way too long and the wrong color to be Kessler's – he's got salt and pepper hair, heavy on the pepper. This is..." He held the hair over his white-gloved palm under a bright light. "Burgundy." He shook his head. "This is a color not found in nature, it must have been dyed. I'll see if Hodges can ID the dye used."

"White crystalline powder under his nails," Grissom observed, scraping some into an evidence envelope."

"And short, course blue fibers in the ligature marks on his neck," Warrick said, getting a sample. "Probably from the noose, it was made of that braided nylon rope. Cheap, worthless stuff. I bought a dog leash made out of that stuff once – Buster jerked the leash going after a squirrel, and I was picking blue splinters out of my hand for a week."

* * *

"Cause of death was asphyxia due to strangulation," Doc Robbins said, not looking up from where he was inspecting his patient's eye with an opthalmascope.

"Don't hanging victims typically die of a broken neck, Doc?" Warrick asked.

"They do, if the knot is tied correctly," the coroner nodded. "But the thirteen-knot hangman's noose isn't exactly one of the knots in the cub scout manual, and it's a bit complicated. It may also have something to do with the type of rope used – too slick, and it will slip, crushing the trachea instead of snapping the neck."

"And that braided nylon is like a greased pig. So... our perpetrator either didn't know how to tie the hangman's knot... didn't have time... assumed the braided nylon rope would hold... or _wanted _Kessler to die a slow and agonizing death," Warrick said, considering the options. Given what they knew of Kessler's personality, any or all of them seemed pretty plausible.

"Anything else of note, Doc?" Grissom asked.

"Yes, actually. The presbyopia and developing cataracts aren't especially surprising, given his age. But here - take a look – many small scabs all over his chest and back. And his teeth were becoming seriously worn down, most likely due to chronic grinding. Another year or so, and he would likely have needed crowns on all of his molars."

"Interesting. Thanks, Doc," Grissom nodded.

Warrick's pager went off. Twice. "Mia and Annie," he said, checking the messages. "I'll go see what they've found."

"I'll be in the layout room with the luminol photos, see if I can't make some headway on the language."

* * *

"Mia – what you got for me?" Warrick asked, stepping into the DNA lab.

"Bloodstain A is a match to Amelia Ravi," she told him.

"Okay, that makes sense – it was found on the floor right where she told us she fell and got a bloody nose," he nodded.

"Bloodstains B is a match to Anthony Kessler, C is an unknown female – I've got it running through CODIS now."

"All right. B and C are spatter we found underneath Kessler – he must've gotten one in on his attacker. Are E, F, G, H, and I from a single source?"

"No, two individuals," she said, shaking her head. "And they sent me scrambling to the software library – those samples aren't human. They're porcine."

Warrick's brow wrinkled in thought. "They painted the wall in _pigs' blood_?"

"Apparently, they did."

"This gets more weird by the hour. It had to have been pre-meditated, I don't know anyone who randomly carries around a quart or two of pig's blood. Some kind of symbology on his being a sexist pig, maybe?" he mused, half to himself. "Anyways, thanks, Mia – I better go see what Annie and Frankie have for me." He headed next door, still muttering to himself.

* * *

"I'm Bach," Warrick announced, stepping back into the Tox lab.

"No, _he's_ Bach," Annie corrected, pointing at the docked iPod. "Now come here and see this. You've got all kinds of weird. First there's bloodstain A – it's a walking pharmacy. It's all stuff with legitimate medical use, at levels indicative of standard adult milligram-per-kilogram dose, but there's a _smorgasbord_ here. Codeine, acetaminophen, methadone, fentanyl, celecoxib, prednisone, cetirizine, and fluoxetine."

"Tylenol-3, Methadose, Fentora, Celebrex, Deltasone, Zyrtec, and Prozac," Warrick nodded, translating to the more common trade-names. "Three narcotics, an NSAID, a corticosteroid, an antihistamine, and an SSRI. She's got a chronic pain condition – she told us she was on a lot of scripts," Warrick nodded. Still, he was surprised at the methadone – Amelia had said she didn't use anything recreationally...

"She wasn't kidding, then. Your stains from the walls all contain growth hormones and assorted antibiotics."

"Not hugely surprising. Mia tells me those stains are pork blood."

"_Pork_ blood?" Frankie asked, wrinkling her nose. "Your perp is _weird_."

"Yeah, remind me to be even more paranoid about buying all of my meat organic from now on," Annie said, grimacing. "Bloodstain C contains traces of Xanax, also heroin and ethanol – I doubt the source was high at the time this blood was spilled, but they had been recently."

"Okay, a benzo and an opiate," Warrick nodded. "And booze. And bloodstain B?"

"Here's where it takes a turn for the weirder," Frankie said. "It's not methamphetamine, but it's some sort of meth-like compound. Library couldn't get us a positive match off the mass spec."

"The levels aren't as high as you would see with typical meth use," Annie went on. "That means either it had been a long time since the last dose, the user was after more of an energy-spike or buzz than a high, or the meth-analog was less potent than they expected it to be."

Warric nodded. "Thanks, ladies – let me know if you get a hit off of that meth-analog. I'm gonna go find Grissom.'


	6. Chapter 5: Search For The Missing Link

**Chapter 5**

Nick stepped back into the morgue with Sara following close behind. "You paged, Doc?"

"Mmmhmm – friend Marcus here died of a myocardial infarction."

"A heart attack? Doc, he's only nineteen," Sara protested. "Did he have some kind of congenital abnormality?"

"Not a congenital one, no. I asked Annie and Frankie to rush the Tox panel."

"Thanks, Doc," Nick nodded. "Hey, look at that – he's got acne worse than the average fifteen year old."

"Also an impetigo infection," Robbins said. "There by his left elbow, and another just under his left fourth rib – most likely due to overscratching."

"Insect bite, maybe?" Sara suggested. "Or dermatitis?"

"Possibly," Robbins confirmed. "I'm not seeing any there now, but those infections have been brewing for a few days at least."

* * *

"Sample's done," Frankie observed as the instrument printer in the Tox lab whirred to life.

"On it," Annie nodded. Getting up from her desk, she lurched her way over to the GCMS. "Frankie..."

"Yeah, Annie?"

"This last sample was from Nick and Sara's dead teenager, right?"

"Yeah."

"And the one before that was the bloodstain Greg and Catherine found at the Pratchett residence?"

"Yeppers. Why?"

Annie didn't look up from the computer monitor where she was overlaying three recent chromatograms. "Page the team, get them up here. Now."

"Which pair, Annie?"

"All of them. I need them _all_ up here, ASAP. And then call Dr. Llewellyn – I'm gonna need a favor."

"All over it."

* * *

Warrick was on his way to the break room when his pager went off – he glanced down at the message. 'Tox lab. ASAP.' Doing an about-face, he jogged back to the lab where he found the other five CSIs converging on the door. "Frankie page all of us at once?" he asked.

"It looks that way," Grissom nodded. Opening the door, he stepped in, the other CSIs hot on his heels. "What have you got for us, Annie?"

Getting up from the Mass Spec, she tapped into a smartboard. "Your cases are all linked," she said simply.

"Linked how?" Catherine asked.

"Nick, Sara, your dead college student died of a massive overdose of a methamphetamine-like compound. We found much lower levels of the _same_ meth-analog in Grissom and Warrick's dead professor. And the _same_ same compound cropped up in bloodstain D from the Pratchett residence."

"So these all used the same recipe?" Sara asked.

"The same recipe, hell, I'd bet you ten bucks it was the same _batch_," Frankie said, nodding emphatically. "The mass spec signatures are frakkin' _identical_. That doesn't happen by accident, not with most of the meth in this country being cooked up in people's death-kitchens."

"Check out the overlay," Annie said, pulling the traces up on the smart board. "The signatures are a perfect match."

"So... all of our cases have the same drug – but it _isn't_ methamphetamine?" Greg asked.

Annie nodded. "Exactly. Unfortunately, the GCMS can't get us an exact hit on precisely what it is – and without that, good luck finding how and by whom it was made. We're going to have to go to NMR."

"We don't have one," Grissom said, stating what everyone in the room already knew.

"No, we don't," Annie agreed. "_But_... Frankie and I have an ace up our sleeve."

"My adviser at WLVU is actually doing research on meth variants that are cropping up all over the place as the ingredients for true meth get harder to come by. She's got some samples we can compare to, in exchange for letting her add our mystery drug's chemical sig to her library. And the WLVU instrument will be free this afternoon – we can go get some sleep, and Dr. Llewellyn will meet us at the Forensics Science Complex at sixteen-hundred."

"HNMR, CNMR, DEPT, COSY, and HETCOR and some good old fashioned brain-power should be enough to get us a definitive structure," Annie grinned. "Some day I'd like to run an INEPT and an INADEQUATE just so I can say I've done it, but I'll save that item on my bucket list for when I'm not pressed for time."

"Good work, you two," Grissom nodded. "How soon can you get an ID?"

"Depends. Can I talk you into okaying some overtime?" Annie asked.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "That also depends – can you talk your _doctor_ into okaying some overtime?"

"Provided that I don't lift anything, am not relying on caffeine to stay awake, and take a day off afterward, yes."

"Consider it okayed, then."

"All right – in that case, God willing and the creek don't rise, we'll have spectra by midnight, and a structure by 8am."

"Annie, Frankie, you guys _rock_," Greg laughed.

"Right now, I mostly just wobble," Annie snickered. "The rocking comes afterward. We're gonna get an autosequence set up on the GCMS to clear out a little of day shift's backlog, and then head on home. Never hurts to get a few brownie points with Ecklie."

"Mmmm, brownies," Frankie giggled. "That reminds me – did he pay the chocolate tax he incurred yesterday?"

"Nope," Annie smirked. "I'll have to remind him."

Nick laughed. "Remind me not to make you ladies cross."

"Smart man," the mistresses of the tox lab giggled in unison.

* * *

"Let's head to Desert Palm to speak with the Pratchetts, and then call it a night," Catherine nodded to Greg as she sipped her umpteenth cup of coffee.

"Sounds like a plan," Greg agreed. "But this time, I'm driving."

"No, you're not."

"But I called dibs!"

"Mmmhmm. And I'm calling seniority."

"You are no fun," Greg protested with a mock-pout.

"That's right."

* * *

"Third room on the right, the receptionist said?" Greg said as he and Catherine stepped off the elevator at Desert Palm.

"Yep – I'm glad the hospital put them in a room together; they probably need the emotional support right now. Room 306 – here we go." Stepping on the door, Catherine tapped lightly on it – after the night Derek and Linnea Pratchett had had, she didn't want to wake them if they were still asleep.

"Come in," called a voice from inside.

"Dr. Pratchett? Mr. Pratchett? I'm Catherine Willows, and this is Greg Sanders – we're from the crime lab."

"Ah, yes – Millie was going on and on about how nice you and Carlie were last night," Linnea said with a grateful smile. "Thank you – you made our children feel a lot safer. And please, just Linnea and Derek is fine – I'm not Doctor Anyone in here, I'm afraid. They aren't kidding when they say we make the worst patients."

"Pull up a couple of chairs," Derek added. "We'd figured you'd probably be by this morning."

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked as he found a seat.

"Sore," Derek said, wincing. "Very sore. But our kids are all right, so we will be."

"Who's keeping them for you until they send you home?" Catherine asked. Given that the attack had seemed to specifically target Millie and Max, security could be a concern.

"Do you know Brian and Margaret Freeman with the LVPD?" Derek asked. At the affirmative nods from the CSIs, the faintest hint of a smirk crossed his face. "Maggie is my sister. May God have mercy on anyone who tries to mess with Max or Millie while they're over there, because believe me, they'll _need_ it."

Or not. Catherine had to agree with Derek's assessment – a few criminals had learned the hard way that Maggie Freeman was a _very_ bad person to cross in a dark alley.

"Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do this?" Greg asked.

Linnea shook her head. "None. Even if they were angry with us, why specifically go after our kids?"

"Did they know the kids' names?" Catherine asked.

"Yes," Derek nodded. "And their ages – when Linnea told them that the kids were visiting her parents, they said 'bullshit, Max would be with his mama'. They were right, of course. But we hadn't realized that they knew we had an infant."

Catherine frowned. "If they knew the kids' names and ages, this probably wasn't random. Do either of you have any disgruntled coworkers or employees? Angry neighbors?"

Linnea paused, considering. "There _was_ a nurse at the clinic... I had to fire her... about two months ago, I think? She'd been warned once for watching adult material on her cell phone on my time; the final straw was when she showed up drunk one morning. She'd only been with us about four months, but I found out a couple days after letting her go that she'd stolen one of my prescription pads from our stock room, and had been forging scripts for controlled substances for at least a month. After she ran out of sheets, she took to calling them in. I finally had to resort to paper scripts with a special stamp on them so that pharmacists can tell if it's real or not."

"Do you know what drugs she was forging?" Catherine asked. "And who she was writing them for?"

"Mostly for herself and members of her immediate family," Linnea nodded. "A few narcotic painkillers, and some benzos, but mostly adderall. She must've been selling at least some of it – no one could possibly use that much amphetamine themselves without dying of an overdose."

"Can you get us her contact information?" Greg asked.

"I don't know it off the top of my head – I'll have my receptionist pull my personnel files for you – all the records you need will be in there."

"Thank you," Catherine nodded.

"Oh, one other request, if we may," Derek piped up.

"We'll be happy to help if we can," Greg nodded.

"The student who helped Millie and Max last night – can you see if she'd be willing to talk to us? We'd just like the chance to say thank you."

"We'll certainly ask her," Catherine assured him.


	7. Chapter 6: Follow-Up

**Chapter 6**

Several CSIs had congregated in the break room, having one more cup of coffee before calling it a night. And then an admin assistant came scurrying in. "Nick, Sara?"

"Yeah, Lance?" Nick asked, turning around in his chair.

"Dean of Students' office at UNLV sent this over for you guys," Lance said, handing Nick a manilla envelope and heading on out.

"Thanks, Lance," Nick called after him.

"What is it?" Sara asked.

"Marcus Wagner's transcript and disciplinary records," Nick replied, leafing through the pages. "Looks like he's been busted once last year for plagiarism, and again this term. One more offense, and he'd have been expelled. Oh, good – also passwords to his campus network space and email are included too, man those guys are fast. And... this looks like his schedule for this term. Let's see... HIST 220, PSYC 210, ARTS 336, and PHYS 120."

"PHYS 120? Freaky coincidence - that's one of the classes our dead professor was teaching... I need to go ask his TA a couple of follow-up questions before I head home and hit the sack – would you like me to ask her if there's anything of note about Marcus while I'm at it?"

"That'd be great – thanks, Warrick," Sara nodded.

* * *

Knocking at Amelia's office door produced no answer, either human or canine. "Looking for Amelia?" a voice asked.

Warrick turned around. "Yeah, actually, I was."

"She's got a pre-exam review with PHYS 120 down in the lecture hall. She should be done in the next few minutes, though, if you want to meet her down there – second door on the right at the bottom of the stairs."

"Thanks," Warrick nodded.

"No problem," the young man replied, continuing his way down the hall.

* * *

Warrick stepped into the back of the lecture hall and waited – this wasn't a screaming emergency, and there was no need to interrupt.

Amelia caught his eye briefly, then continued with what she'd been doing. "So this will give us our angle, theta, and from there we can calculate mu," she said. The tablet on her lap was clearly linked by some sort of app to the smart board on the wall, as her vectors translated near-instantly from tablet to board. "Does anyone have any further questions on the coefficient of friction?" she asked, looking around. No hands went up. "All right, how about on anything else?" Still no hands. "All right, in that case, I'll see you all on Monday. I'll have scratch paper and a formula sheet for you, but make sure you've got a calculator, and for pete's sake, bring an extra set of batteries – they will _always_ choose the worst time to die. Good luck, and may the mass times acceleration be with you."

As most of the students filed out amidst groans and snickers, Warrick made his way to the front of the room, but a young lady got to Amelia first. He waited off to the side as they had a brief conversation in a language he didn't recognize.

As the student headed out, Amelia pivoted around to face her visitor. "Mr. Brown – long time, no see. What can I do for you?" she asked as she put her tablet back into its case. A stylus fell on the floor. Before she could even say 'darn it', Missy had retrieved it and put it back in her hand. "Thanks, girl."

"I was hoping you had a few minutes to talk."

"Sure, but not in here – there's another group coming in in a few minutes that needs this room. Let's head up to my office."

"After you," Warrick nodded.

"Elevator is this way," she said, heading out and swinging a right, Missy following along just by her left wheel.

"What language was that?" Warrick asked, curious.

"Hindu – Bharti is from India. She has an easier time processing certain things in her native language, and I enjoy the chance to keep my language skills in shape away from my family."

"You're bilingual?" Warrick asked.

"Quadrilingual, actually," Amelia shrugged. "Mom's family speaks Punjab, Dad's family speaks Bengali, and they speak Hindu to each other. Given that my paternal grandmother took care of my brother and me while our parents were working, we both learned Bengali before anything else - Pitamohi speaks essentially no English; Alexander's and my early English instruction was mostly from _Sesame Street _until we started kindergarten." Wheeling her way into the elevator, she hit the button for the second floor.

"Was your whole class at the review?" Warrick asked.

"Most of it – there were a few people missing. Didn't see Marcus, Jamal, Hannah, or Greyson. For their sake, I hope they haven't got the bug circulating campus." Fishing a keyring from her cargo pocket, she unlocked the door to her office.

"I'm afraid Marcus Wagner is dead," Warrick told her.

She spun around to face him. "Wait – back up. _What?_"

"Marcus Wagner had a heart attack last night."

"Okay, this is beginning to get _seriously_ creepy," Amelia said with a slight shudder.

"Tell me about it. Was there anything unusual about Marcus that you were aware of?"

"Well, he wasn't doing so well in my class – _if_ he'd aced my final, the best he could possibly have gotten was a C."

"Not much of a physicist, was he?"

She shrugged. "He wasn't the next Newton, but he wasn't bad. No, what got him in trouble was that I caught him plagiarizing a paper. Pro tip: if you're gonna lift large parts of a published research paper for your essay, make sure that it's one that your TA didn't co-author. I reported the incident to the Academic Standing Committee and gave him the opportunity to rewrite it for half credit. He declined, saying he'd ace the class without it. I told him that that was mathematically impossible if he had a zero for the paper, but he was undeterred. I believe his exact words were 'just watch me, bitch.'"

"You didn't make a fuss over the bitch?"

Amelia shrugged. "Not worth it – he was angry that I'd busted his ass, and probably didn't mean it. He'd get his comeuppance when the grades came out. Anyways, I've been called worse."

"Fair enough."

"Was there anything else you needed to ask me about?"

"I thought you told me that you've never used any recreational drugs?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I haven't," she replied, raising one right back.

"Our lab technician found methadone in the blood you left in Kessler's office."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Y'know, it's assumptions like that that make a discreet pharmacist worth their weight in gold. If you'd asked me, I could have told you you would find methadone; it's my primary pain control drug. It's often actually much more effective than other narcotics for skeletal pain, which is what most of my pain is. Do you have any idea how tedious it is having people pull their children away every time you go by the pharmacy to pick up script refills?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"That's because you didn't ask. Seriously, I don't bite," she said, finally cracking a small smile.

"I guess I had that coming," Warrick agreed, smirking a little himself. "Well, what all are you on, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Two and a half migs of methadone three to four times a day as needed, and I have both Tylenol-3 and fentanyl for break-through – I use codeine if I'm hurting so bad I can't sleep, because it's extremely effective and it will make me sleep through the night. Unfortunately, it isn't an option if I have to drive, teach, or otherwise be conscious. Fentanyl works faster, and, for me at least, with fewer side effects, but isn't quite as effective. But since it doesn't kick like a mule, it's my go-to option if I've got class in twenty minutes and can barely move. Don't usually need those two more than once or twice a week, but with the storm, I was at max dose yesterday and the day before. Would have called in sick if it weren't for exam week coming up. Additionally I'm on celebrex and, when needed, prednisone for inflammation due to the arthritis, zyrtec for my allergies, and prozac because the narcs get a little wonky with my seretonin levels."

Warrick whistled. "Quite the pharmacy."

"Tell me about it."

"Do you have any documentation on the plagiarism incident?" Warrick asked, hopefully.

"Sure, I can get you a copy," Amelia nodded. Taking a blank DVD from her desk drawer and inserting it into her computer's drive, she burned several files. "That's the paper he turned in, the paper he copied from, and the correspondence between me, him, Kessler, and the Academic Standing Committee, as well as his file from my electronic gradebook," she said, ejecting the disk, labeling it with a sharpie pen, and putting it in a jewel case before passing it across the desk.

"Thanks, Amelia."

* * *

"You about ready to head out to the university, Annie?" Frankie asked, stepping into the locker room at CSI and grabbing her ID.

"Just about – just need to go grab the box of samples."

"Don't even think about it – repeat after me: _interns are for lifting_."

"Frankie, it isn't even that hea-"

"_Say it._"

"Interns are for lifting," Annie muttered.

"What's that you say, Annie? I didn't quite catch that," Frankie smirked.

"Interns are for lifting," Annie repeated, rolling her eyes.

"Damn straight. Incidentally, the box weighs 21.2 pounds – I checked. Didn't the doc say you weren't allowed to lift anything over 20?"

"_Seriously? _Frankie, 21 rounds down to 20, everyone knows that. Dr. Clark didn't say 'nothing over _20.0_ pounds'..."

"Tell it to the jury," Frankie smirked.

"Fine, fine," Annie laughed, throwing her hands up in mock-surrender. "I give, I give. But lab techs are for _driving_."

"Drat!"

Annie smirked. "Muahahahaha."

* * *

"There's Dr. Llewellyn," Frankie said, nodding in the professor's direction, as her hands were full. "C'mon, Annie – I'll introduce ya."

"Right behind you, Frankie," Annie nodded.

"Hi Dr. Llewellyn," Frankie said, walking up. "I'd like you to meet Annie MacPherson. Annie, meet Cailin Llewellyn," the young intern grinned.

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Llewellyn," Annie grinned, shaking hands. "Frankie has told me so much about you."

"Likewise," Cailin laughed. Her voice carried just the faintest ghost of a gaelic accent. She turned to her student. "Frankie, _what_ have I told ye about calling me 'Dr. Llewellyn'?" she asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"If I do it one more time, you'll fail me," Frankie laughed. "Sorry, Cailin."

"Better be," Cailin laughed. "Come on down to the lab – I hear you've run across some meth-variants."


	8. Chapter 7: Assembling the Pieces

**Chapter 7**

"Watch your eyes," Annie called as she heard the door open. She and Frankie had taken over the conference room with sunglasses and every overhead and LCD projector they could find, and had all of the spectra from their adventures with the NMR blown up on all the walls. Clear dry erase boards had been scrounged from the labs and held bits of the structure teased out thus far while, on the table, a 3D model was growing, atom by plastic atom, from a molecular model kit.

Nick squinted at the bright light. "How have you two not tripped every circuit breaker this side of the building?" he asked, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Frankie smirked. "Extension cords. Lots and lots of extension cords – we don't have more than two projectors plugged into any one circuit.

"Nice. Any progress?"

"Gettin' there," Annie replied. "We'll page you guys when we have an answer."

* * *

"Hey Archie – got a minute?" Warrick asked, stepping into the AV lab with a laptop tucked under his arm.

"Sure, what have you got?" the AV tech asked, swiveling his chair around.

"Our dead professor put an extra level or two of security on top of campus IT protocols on his laptop. I need in."

"Let's see," Archie grinned, plugging it in and turning it on. "Okay, I can crack his script – you'll have to handle the fingerprint scanner yourself."

"I think I can do that," Warrick grinned.

* * *

"Got the contents of Marcus's dorm room?" Sara asked as Nick came into the layout room carrying a stack of three evidence boxes.

"Yep. There's more in the evidence locker, but this should be a good start."

"Nick, Sara," Warrick said, stepping in. "I got something for you guys - you know how Marcus's discipline records said he'd been busted this term for plagiarism? You'll never guess whose class that was."

"Kessler's?" Sara and Nick said in unison.

"Bingo." He set one of CSI's laptops on the table. "Marcus copied a published paper for PHYS 120 - unfortunately for him, it was one that his TA had coauthored, and she busted his ass. And Amelia got me the paper he turned in; the paper he copied from; the correspondence between herself, him, Kessler, and the Academic Standing Committee; and his record from her electronic gradebook." He promptly had a colleague standing over each shoulder.

"She gave him a chance to rewrite, and he didn't do it?" Sara asked in disbelief, peering at one of the archived email threads.

"Yeah, Amelia said he was convinced he'd ace the class without it," Warrick nodded.

Nick shook his head. "Gradebook says that's mathematically impossible."

"He didn't seem to see it that way," Warrick shrugged. "I'm gonna go see about making a silicon mold of Kessler's fingerprint so I don't need a dead guy's hand to get into his computer." With that, he headed out.

"Guess that leaves us to process this stuff," Nick observed.

"I'll start with his backpack," Sara nodded, pulling it from the top box.

"All right – I've got his computer," Nick said, booting up. "Weird... he recently dumped nearly his entire email cache. Oldest thing in here is five days ago from an iansanity – no subject, no signature, and it's just one word. Valkyrie."

"Well... the university may be able to get us back-ups from their web server, but it could take a few days," Sara said. She paused. "Nick... I think this backpack has a false bottom. The inside isn't as deep as the outside says it ought to be. Pass me a flashlight?"

"You got it," Nick nodded, passing over a maglight.

"Let's see here..." she said, shining the light into the bag with one hand while feeling around with the other. "There's a small, solid object sewn into the lining here...I think it's a magnetic clasp of some kind. And... got it. Nick... you gotta see this..."

"What is it?" he asked, scurrying around the table to peer over her shoulder. "Holy cow... there must be twenty bags, at least."

"Better get counting..."

* * *

"Warrick - the language? Isn't a foreign language at all. It's a rail fence transposition cipher," Grissom said, dashing into the room.

"A cipher?" Warrick replied. "What would be the point of ciphering graffiti left at a murder scene? Some kind of challenge or defiance to us?"

"I don't know, Warrick. That's what we're going to have to find out."

"You're not the only one with weird – here, Gris, come check this out - I just got into Kessler's computer."

Stepping around the table, Grissom leaned over Warrick's shoulder. "What am I looking at here?"

"His electronic gradebook. Remember how I mentioned that Marcus Wagner got a zero on a paper he plagiarized at the beginning of the term, and consequently, couldn't possibly get better than a C in Kessler's class?"

"Yeah," Grissom nodded.

"Check this out – Kessler just updated his gradebook last week; all the other students' grades are identical to the files Amelia sent. But look at Marcus's."

"The grades are rigged," Grissom nodded. "Kessler's records show an A for that paper, and nothing lower than an A- for the term."

"Yep – and Amelia's have a zero for the paper, and a B- for the midterm. That's why Marcus was so confident that he'd ace the class, even when told it wasn't mathematically possible – he probably knew the books were cooked." Warrick shook his head. "The question is, is it bribery, or is it blackmail?"

* * *

"All right," Greg said, stepping in with a large manilla folder. "Got Dr. Pratchett's personnel records," he said.

"Let's see," Catherine nodded, stepping over. "Sure enough – there's only one person fired within the last two years. Freida Collwell, nurse, fired two and a half months ago for showing up drunk. Wound up with a restraining order after she kept coming to the clinic and harassing patients and staff. And lookee here, the good doctor has kept a notation of every forged script she found out about."

"Holy cow, Cath – she must've gotten _hundreds_ of 30mg amphetamine tablets."

"No kidding. Let's see here – the address listed in the files is 1498 Verde Ave."

Greg frowned. "Isn't that down by the UNLV campus?"

"Why, yes, Greg – yes, it is. Interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

"Depends on how you define 'coincidence', now doesn't it?" Greg smirked. "I'll see if O'Riley can find out where she's working these days."

* * *

"All right, Frankie – we've got structure," Annie grinned triumphantly.

"Glory be, and hallelujah," Frankie laughed. "I'll page the team up here."

"And I'll turn off all the projectors so we don't blind them all," Annie giggled.

Within a few minutes, the six CSIs had gathered in the conference room. "What have you ladies got for us?" Greg asked.

Annie wheeled over a dry erase board. "Allow us to introduce you to... your meth variant," she grinned. "There are plenty of ways to make meth, all of them very dangerous, and very illegal. The most _direct_ route is to start with amphetamine, better known to most folks as the prescription drug Adderall. Of course, that requires having access to a schedule II controlled substance. So the most _common_ way to do it is by starting with pseudoephedrine, better known as Sudafed."

"Your would-be meth-maker... did neither of these," Frankie nodded. "The government, not being nearly so stupid as they are often given credit for, has tightened access to Sudafed – you now need an ID to buy it, and there are strict limits as to how much you can buy in a month."

"But there is a decongestant you can buy over the counter – phenylephrine, often marketed as Sudafed PE. As a decongestant, the stuff is pretty much worthless for a lot of people. The reason you can readily get it over the counter is because you _can't_ make meth with it," Annie nodded. "Someone, however, tried to. Either they had reached their pseudoephedrine limit for the month and were desperate, or they didn't know there was a difference."

"Thanks, you two," Grissom nodded. "Now, for goodness sake, go home and get some sleep."


	9. Chapter 8: Connections

**Chapter 8**

Annie stifled a yawn as she and Frankie headed to the locker room to head out for the night. "Nothing quite so satisfying as identifying a compound old-school," she remarked, still grinning like the cat who got the canary.

"I know, right?" Frankie laughed. "Almost makes using the GCMS library feel like cheating. Got any plans for the enforced day off?"

"Rest, while I still can," Annie laughed. "I doubt I'll sleep much after about midnight - the reason Scott and I both work nights despite having enough seniority for days is because we both have ass-backwards circadian rhythms - but maybe curl up with a good book, or pick up the XBox controller and bash some LEGO storm troopers."

"Good times," Frankie giggled. "Who's gonna watch the baby for you once you're back to work?"

"Scott's Dad - he was having a rough time emotionally living by himself after Scott's Mom died unexpectedly, so he moved in with us about a year and a half ago. It's been good for all of us - he's one of the warmest, friendliest, most helpful, and most caring people you could ever want to meet, and even our dog is happier with someone around during the day. And Matt is like a kid in a candy shop at the prospect of spending his days with his little grandbaby so we can sleep. Plus by the time I'm back to work, she'll be sleeping through the night, probably, so just being home with her at night won't be a huge deal."

"Makes sense," Frankie nodded. "And it'll be wonderful for the munchkin to grow up with such a close relationship with her grandaddy. I hadn't heard about Scott's Mom, though."

Annie shook her head. "It's pretty common knowledge within both CSI and LVPD, but it was before your time. I don't talk about it much, and Scott doesn't talk about it at all. Erin died in a hit and run right after we were married - and because dispatch had no way of knowing, Scott was the first officer on the scene. Somehow - God only knows how - he managed to hold it together long enough for dispatch to get a second squad car and CSI out there, but the fallout afterward was... ugly. But being together has done wonders for Matt and Scott both, and me as well." She smiled. "When we told Matt there was a grandbaby on the way... let's just say, I didn't know he was still physically capable of jumping up and down like that," she laughed.

"I'm glad they have cause for joy again," Frankie nodded, shuddering at the horror of being an officer in that position.

"It's been a long road, but... we're getting there," Annie nodded. Her stomach rumbled, and looked down at her belly. "_Seriously_, Little Bit?" she chuckled. "Fine, have it your way." She turned to Frankie with a smirk. "I'm getting demands for French toast; I'm gonna stop by IHOP before I head home. Care to come along? My treat."

"Sure - thanks!"

* * *

Warrick glanced down as his pager went off. "Hodges," he said, nodding to Grissom. "I'll go see what he's got."

Stepping into the Trace lab, Warrick looked around for the occasionally somewhat surly analyst. "Hodges?"

"Over here."

Warrick found the lab tech bent over a microscope. "What's up?"

"Well, your green glass definitely came from a wine bottle. The residual wine says that it was a very cheap red. Honestly, why bother drinking anything that nasty?"

"Got it," Warrick nodded. "Anything else?"

"Your perp has very cheap taste in wine, but very expensive taste in hair care products. The hair dye is FreyaMae's 'Red Velvet Luxury' - it's a top tier brand found only in high-end salons. The hair is also coated in FreyaMae's 'So Sexy' extra-hold hairspray - which, for the record, doesn't do a thing that a can of Aquanet won't do for about a fifth of the price. Still had a skin tag on it, so I got it to Mia - you're very welcome for that, by the way. And under your dead prof's nails, I found green and blue Expo dry erase ink, Annie and Frankie's meth analog, and traces of... FreyaMae CarbonTip nail polish in 'Red Satin Lust'."

"Someone enjoys looking good," Warrick nodded. "Thanks, Hodges." With that, he headed back to give Grissom the latest info. He found the graveyard supervisor on the phone.

"Thanks, Erickson," Grissom nodded, hanging up the phone. He looked up at Warrick. "That was the chief of the UNLV campus police. Their labs have been quiet with exams about to start, but a grad student in the biochem department came in early this morning to work on a research project and found two quarts of pork blood ordered specifically for her research missing from a recent shipment - the shipping crate was confirmed to have been intact when it arrived on the dock four days ago."

Warrick whistled. "That explains where the blood came from. Anything else missing?"

Grissom nodded. "They called the lab managers for all of the science departments out of bed to check inventory - the chemistry department stock room is short about half a kilo of red phosphorous."

"Red phosphorous? The stuff in matchbook strike pads? Isn't that used for..."

"Yes, and yes."

* * *

"What's next in the box?" Nick asked.

"Let's see here... Three sketchbooks - don't appear to be for a class, but two are completely full, and the last only has a few pages left," Sara said, flipping through them. "He was really good. And according to the dates on these, he did a dozen or more a day. Let's see, what else... oil and acrylic paints - those must be for that art class, the course title is Advanced Still Lifes; four spiral bound notebooks - PHYS 120, PSYC 210, HIST 220, and MATH 115..."

Nick frowned. "Hold up a sec... MATH 115? That's not one of the classes Marcus was taking this term..." He tapped at his computer. "UNLV's course catalog says that MATH 115 is Precalculus with Trigonometry. PHYS 120 is calculus-based, not algebra-based. It's got a minimum of MATH 124, Calculus 1, as a pre-req - Marcus wouldn't even have been able to register for MATH 115 and PHYS 120 at the same time; the system wouldn't have allowed it."

"Old notebook from last year, maybe?" Sara mused, reaching for Marcus's transcript. "No... Marcus took AP calculus in high school, and placed directly into MATH 220, Calc 2, as an incoming freshman. He never took MATH 115."

Picking up the notebooks for both PHYS 120 and MATH 115, Nick flipped through both. "Handwriting looks like a match," he said. "But the pencil in the math one is way lighter."

"Well an artist would have different grades of pencil - but why would you use your expensive artists' pencils to take notes for a class you don't have, especially when a 20¢ yellow wooden #2 would do just fine?" Sara's nose wrinkled. "Are you wearing a whole bunch of sunscreen?"

"On graveyard? What would be the point? I never see the sun." He sniffed. "But you're right, I smell it too." He paused a moment, deep in thought. "Be right back." Jumping up, he jogged off toward the labs. He returned a moment later.

"What's that?" Sara asked, nodding at the object tucked under his arm.

"The UV lamp from Trace - Hodges said he wasn't using it at the moment." Plugging in the lamp, he turned it on and held it over the pages of the math notebook. "Bullseye. Check this out, Sara," he pointed, smirking.

"Invisible ink," she nodded. "I didn't know sunscreen did that."

"Yeah - I was channel-surfing the other day and caught a documentary on cryptography and counterespionage. Pretty interesting. But I think we just found where our buddy Marcus kept his financial records for his little pharmaceutical enterprise," he nodded. "'TP ice to AK, $50,'" he read. "That one's dated four days ago. Not sure what TP is an abbreviation for, aside from I'm pretty sure it's not toilet paper - must be his own personal shorthand."

* * *

"Catherine... didn't Frankie and Annie say that meth can be made from Adderall?"

Catherine stared at her partner. "Yeah, Greg... they did."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"I think I am. Hundreds of 30mg Adderall tablets could make quite a bit of meth."

"Yeah," Greg agreed. "Oh, and O'Riley got back to me on Dr. Pratchett's ex-nurse Freida Collwell about fifteen minutes ago - she managed to get a job as a lab assistant in UNLV's chemistry department."

* * *

"Here's your lamp back," Nick said as he stepped back into the Trace lab with Sara. "Thanks - it was very helpful."

"Nick, Sara - I was just about to page you," Hodges said, not looking up from the GCMS. "Got the results on your samples from the Wagner kid's backpack."

"Great - they all the same thing?" Sara asked.

"He may have thought they were, but no," Hodges replied. "The four bags marked with blue post-it flags are methamphetamine, which, based on the other compounds present, was synthesized from Adderall. The five marked with green flags are methamphetamine which was synthesized from pseudoephedrine. And the remaining 21 marked with yellow flags are Annie and Frankie's phenylephrine-derived meth-analog."

"Well, the fleur de lis stamped on the bags is likely a dealer's mark," Nick mused. "Do the TP, N, and D notations correspond to the drug's source?"

"No, they're distributed pretty evenly through the sources," Hodges answered, shaking his head. "My best guess is that it refers to the weight."

"Makes sense," Sara agreed. "Nickel and Dime, maybe? Still not sure about TP, though..."

"Word to the wise? Probably not toilet paper," Hodges said, still not looking up. "Oh, and one other thing? His death may have been an accident – accidental ODs are easy to do with meth anyways, because a lethal dose will take a little time to catch up with you. Plus, the analog is more sterically hindered, so it probably takes longer to kick in."

Nick nodded in understanding. "So... Marcus takes his usual dose, but it doesn't work right away, so he assumes he didn't take enough. He takes more, and goes over the lethal limit..."

"Exactly," Hodges nodded.

* * *

"Hey, Brian," Catherine waved, seeing the cop passing through the hall. "Little early today, aren't you."

Brian shook his head. "Maggie and I are both off until Linnea and Derek are out of the hospital – I just came by to pick up a couple of things I left in my locker the other day on my way to the store to pick up a gallon of apple juice and some baby food – we've got the milk out of Linnea's freezer, but it's been some time since we've kept strained sweet potatoes in the house."

"I can imagine – how old are Simon and Samantha now?"

"Just turned eighteen, and applying to college – Sammie's looking at marine biology programs out east, and Simon has his eye on the WLVU forensics program."

"Nice," Catherine grinned. "How's Millie doing? She was pretty shaken up..."

"She still is. Simon and Samantha are plying her with ice cream, which helps some, but she's been having nightmares. Maggie's partner is a 110 pound Rottweiler – Cal is sleeping on Millie's bed until further notice; he's really been amazing with her. When she wakes up crying, he's usually got her calmed down before Maggie or I can even get in the room. But do me a favor – when you find the bastards who did this, keep me far away from 'em."


	10. Chapter 9: Some Leads Deciphered

**Chapter 9**

"Grissom..." Warrick said, looking up from the boxes of evidence taken from Kessler's office. "Check this out – I found it in the bottom of Kessler's desk drawer." He held up what had once been a cell phone but had been smashed sufficiently to ensure that it would never inflict aggravating ring tones upon the world again. "It's got some fragments of green glass stuck between the keys, I'll get 'em to Hodges."

"I don't think a wine bottle would have the mass to do this kind of damage," Grissom said, peering with interest. "Whoever wanted it destroyed must've switched to a heavier object. Didn't Kessler have a brass paperweight on his desk?"

"I think so, yeah – that banker's lamp would likely have done the job too; I think they're both in that box over there," he said, nodding in that general direction as he fussed with the back cover of the phone. "Got it," he said triumphantly. "The screen and keypad are deader than a mackerel, but the SIM card and the memory chip aren't damaged – I'll see what Archie can do with them."

* * *

"Nick," Sara said, looking up from the stack of photocopies on her desk. "Come see this."

"Are those the copies from Marcus's invisible ink?" Nick asked, stepping over. The photocopier's powerful ultraviolet light had made permanently legible copies.

"Yeah. See – it's a list of words and... some kind of diagrams. Atlantis... Olympus... Valkyrie... The list goes on, but I'm not sure what it means..."

Nick stared at the paper frowning. "It's keys to several transposition ciphers. I'm not sure what he was using them for, though, the notebook is in plaintext."

*This is why I'm hot... this is why I'm hot... I'm hot b'cause I'm fly; you ain't b'cause you're not... this is why, this is why, this is why I'm hot...*

Sara's nose wrinkled. "_Tell_ me that isn't your cell..."

Nick threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't look at me, mine's set on vibrate. And I'm guessing it's not yours, either." He stepped towards the stack of evidence boxes, listening. "Got it," he said, opening one and removing a cell phone. "Looks like Marcus just got a text message."

Sara rolled her eyes. "If you have to explain to the world _exactly_ why it is that you're hot, using circular reasoning... you ain't, 'cause you're not."

"No arguments here," Nick shrugged, checking the text. "Well, that explains what he was using the ciphers for..." He stepped over to the dry erase board. "Pass me that sheet with the ciphers, will ya? He got that email reading 'Valkyrie' – I wonder if it's really that simple."

"Here you go," Sara nodded, grabbing the sheet off of her desk. "What would be the point of ciphering text messages? It's not like any John Doe on the street will be reading Marcus's texts, and if you're worried about Big Brother, sending obviously encrypted stuff would only catch their attention if they _did_ see it. After 9-11, if they're sufficiently interested in you to be tapping your communications, anything like that would go straight to the cryptographers at NSA – who can probably crack that sort of thing within a day even without the key."

"Probably means someone somewhere is _just_ smart enough to land themselves in some serious trouble," Nick nodded, not looking up from the board.

"Is that a musical score?" Sara asked, peering with interest.

"No, the Valkyrie cipher is what's known as a rail fence transposition – it's a kind of anagram. All of the correct letters are here; they're just in the wrong order. The cipher text is formed by sliding the plain text up and down on a series of imaginary rails – watch this." With the cipher text now copied out, he started shifting the letters and added punctuation as needed. "Tuesday 9:30 - Handlebar Saloon. Don't be late. Bring the cash or else. No excuses."

"Handlebar Saloon – that's that low-life bar down by UNLV," Sara nodded. "Place is seedier than a bird feeder – the university has to send out mass emails every term warning female students not to go there alone."

"I think we've got ourselves a date on Tuesday – I'll ask Brass to make sure we've got back-up in the neighborhood.

"Sounds like we get to play dress up," Sara nodded. "CSI vests are likely _not _part of the dress code."

"Right," Nick nodded. He looked deep in thought. "I'll be right back – I need to go ask Grissom something."

* * *

Nick tapped on the open door frame of his supervisor's office. "Hey, Grissom."

"Yes, Nick?" Grissom didn't look up from what he was doing.

"Didn't you mention something about a cipher coming up in the case you and Warrick are working on?"

"Yes, a rail fence transposition – I was just working on it now."

"Try this," Nick said, setting the code sheet on the desk. "Sara and I found it written in one of Marcus Wagner's notebooks in invisible ink, and he just got a text in the Valkyrie cipher. Said to meet at the Handlebar Saloon at 9:30 Tuesday night, and to bring the cash or else."

Taking his pencil, Grissom re-transcribed the line of cipher text he'd been working with and applied the Valkyrie key. "Kessler is a sexist pig... Snitches burn in hell..." he frowned, staring at the page. "The key works, but why would you even bother ciphering this? If you're looking to make a statement, the plaintext says it a lot better."

Nick shrugged. "Search me. Why would you bother ciphering text messages that will only ever be seen by the recipient?"

* * *

"You paged, Mia?" Warrick asked, stepping into the DNA lab.

"CODIS didn't turn up any hits, but the skin tag from the hair Hodges gave me is a postive match to bloodstain C from Kessler's office."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Say, did Archie find you? He was asking where you were about... ten minutes ago, maybe?"

"No, he didn't – I'll go find him," Warrick nodded. "Thanks again, Mia." Stepping out of the DNA lab, he bumped into the AV tech a short way down the hall. "Archie," he nodded. "Mia said you were looking for me?"

"Yeah – I think I found out why someone wanted to destroy your vic's cell phone. C'mon, I'll show you." Leading the way to the AV lab, Archie cued up a video on his monitor. "It's a grainy cell video, but it's not too bad. Check it out." He clicked play. "The first bit has a fuzzy shifting border on it – I think he's filming through the buttonhole of his jacket. Creative."

A dark blue fuzzy edge encircled the frame, but a woman with burgundy hair and a white lab coat could be seen amongst what looked like shelves of chemicals. Several seconds saw her surreptitiously glancing around corners before removing a large jar of reddish powder from a shelf and, rather unsubtly, slipping it into her oversized and overpriced purse.

*Hey, little lady – I think you must be lost; the nursing program is across the quad,* said a condescending male voice off-screen.

The lady in the video jumped, then turned toward the camera. *Bite me, Kessler.*

*I'm impressed – you know my name. But that's _Dr._ Kessler to groundlings like you.*

*Everyone knows your name – and that you're an asshole. Get out of my way.*

A hand appeared in the frame, grabbing the woman roughly by the shoulder. "No little girl speaks to me that way," the male voice said harshly. *I saw what you were doing.*

*Fuck you.*

The camera shifted and momentarily went dark and blurry before sharpening again, sans fuzzy border – Kessler had revealed his phone. His thumb shifted, smudging the camera momentarily, and a button beeped. *I would reconsider that, if I were you, little girl. You do not have the intelligence to match wits with me. For, say, $200, I might be convinced to forget I was ever here. You have until Saturday afternoon to change your mind. Otherwise, I will be letting your supervisor about this little incident.*

"It's time-stamped 3:30 Monday afternoon," Archie nodded. "I think he was trying to kill the recording at the end there, but he must've hit the wrong button."

Warrick whistled. "Well... that adds an interesting twist."


	11. Chapter 10: Suspects, Kith, and Kin

**Chapter 10**

Carlie's nose wrinkled as she walked down the corridor – she hated the disinfectant smell of hospitals. Finding the door she wanted, she knocked gently, not at all sure what she was expecting.

"Come in."

Opening the door, Carlie stepped into the room and looked around. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Pratchett. - um, I'm Carlie. The CSIs said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Just Derek and Linnea is fine," Derek grinned, rightly guessing that his daughter had referred to them simply as 'Mommy and Daddy' and Carlie probably didn't even know their first names. "We just wanted to properly say thank you for helping our kids."

Carlie blushed. "You're welcome, of course," she said, a smile which had often been described as 'infectious' coming to her face. But I don't know that I'm a hero or anything."

"Millie would say otherwise," Linnea chuckled. "As would we. You saw two cold and frightened children, and made sure they were safe – sounds pretty heroic to me."

"I'd like to think I was just doing what any decent person would have done," Carlie laughed.

"Perhaps, but decent people can be hard to come by in this world," Derek observed. "So – thank you. Thank you for being a friend when Millie and Max most needed one." He grinned. "Have a seat, if you want – tell us about yourself."

* * *

As Carlie left the hospital, she found her mind was wandering a path all its own. She had entered that hospital room a total stranger and left some two hours later as family – the Pratchetts were some of the warmest, most wonderful people she'd ever met. Who could possibly have wanted to do this to this family?

At last coming out of her reverie, she looked up and found that she'd arrived at, not the bus stop she'd been heading for, but a large book retailer. She grinned. Well. She was already off campus, and the next bus back wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes. Millie had a birthday coming up in the next couple of weeks. And, as Derek and Linnea had observed, the bright and inquisitive little girl had quickly become a friend. Heading inside, she made her way to the audiovisual section and the kids' DVDs, where she quickly found just what she was looking for. Purchasing the DVD along with a birthday card, she whistled as she headed off to the bus stop.

* * *

"Catherine."

Catherine had been headed back to her desk, but turned around. "What have you got, Jacqui?"

"AFIS kicked out a match to one set of prints from the Pratchett residence – Dominic Hale. He's got priors for vandalism, petty theft, and meth possession."

"Thanks – I'll see if O'Riley can put out a BOLO."

* * *

"Good evening, Dominic," Catherine said as she stepped into the interrogation room with Greg, wearing the expression of a cat eagerly anticipating a date with the neighborhood canary.

"Man, I already told that cop," Dominic said, scowling at O'Riley. "I don't even know why I'm here!"

"Well, maybe my associate and I can clear that up for you," Greg said, his tone friendly as he took a seat across the table from the young man with the seemingly permanent scowl. "Is Sassafrass Lane familiar to you at all? Been there recently?"

"Never heard of the place," Dominic said icily. "Why, there any good clubs there?" His fingertips tapped at the table nervously... or possibly compulsively.

"No," Catherine replied, a dangerous note creeping into her voice. "No clubs. But two nights ago, there was a break-in there. Two men broke into a house at about 11:00 at night, threatening to kidnap two very specific children. Know anything about that, Dominic?" Inwardly, she sighed – she had seen entirely too many real thugs in this job, and this kid didn't come close. The 'tough guy' was an act, and beneath the facade, he was probably about to wet his pants.

"I already _told_ you - I ain't never heard of this Sassyass Lane, or whatever the hell it's called, and I don't know _jack shit _about anything that happened there."

"Well, it's funny you should say that, Dominic," Greg said conversationally, his tone still the friendly Good Cop to Catherine's Bad Cop. "Because, you see, we found your fingerprints at the crime scene."

"So, let's try this again, Dominic," Catherine said, the dangerous note in her tone growing stronger. "Do you know anything about the attempt to kidnap Max and Millie?"

"I want a lawyer."

Catherine smirked dangerously. "Yes, Dominic, I think that would be a _very_ good idea."

* * *

"Nick, Sara?"

Sara turned. "Yeah, Brass?"

"Marcus Wagner's parents are here - the University had incorrect home contact info on file, so I wound up calling in a favor with the Carson City police department to look them up by property tax records."

"Thanks, Brass - we'll be right there," Nick nodded.

The two CSIs stepped into a quiet interrogation room a few minutes later to find a middle-aged couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, we're very sorry for your loss," Sara began as she and Nick sat down. Given the hour, Martha and Zachary Wagner had likely made the drive straight from Carson City as soon as they'd heard the news. "I'm Sara Sidle, and this is Nick Stokes."

Martha nodded. "Thank you. Please, the police in Carson City didn't have a lot of details - can you tell us what happened to our son?"

Nick sighed. "I'm afraid there's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Wagner - Marcus died of an overdose of a methamphetamine-derived drug."

"That's a stimulant, isn't it?" Zach shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "I wish... I wish I could say that we were surprised."

Sara cringed inwardly. "Could you tell us more about Marcus?"

"He's always been very bright, and a gifted artist, but ever since he was a baby, he's craved stimulation," Martha said. "Some mothers run the vacuum cleaner or the drier to get their babies to stop crying - I had to put him in the swing as fast as it would go, turn the television on at full volume, and THEN run the vacuum. And I wound up with the cleanest floors on the block. As he got older, he'd drink as many caffeinated sodas as we would let him have as a preschooler, and then sneak some more, or our coffee mugs, when we weren't looking. He liked his chili even spicier than his Dad, and ate jalapenos like apples. And all that was mostly fine," she sighed.

"But then we learned that our youngest, Darius, has severe ADD - he's been on Adderall for over a decade now," Zach continued. "We're not sure when Marcus first got a hold of Darius's medication. But it became a nonstop battle to keep him out of it - the Adderall was an instant source of the stimulus he craved. At one point, it was so bad that Darius offered to go off his meds to get them out of the house and away from his brother, but we couldn't ask that of him - he simply does not have the attention span to succeed academically without meds, and we couldn't ask a thriving child to sacrifice all the progress he'd made. Instead, we only filled a week's worth of Adderall at a time and kept it locked up, but Marcus still occasionally found a way. We tried therapy, counseling..."

Martha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "We had hoped that when he went away to school, away from the Adderall sitting there, that all the activity of college life would give him the stimulation he needed." She shook her head. "We should have known better."

"Unfortunately, we have evidence that Marcus was dealing as well as using, most likely to support his habit."

Zach shook his head. "Marcus, how could someone as bright as you also be so _stupid_?" he wondered aloud. "You knew better."

Martha paused. "Can we... Would it be possible for us to see our boy?"

Sara nodded. "Of course - I'll show you down to the morgue."

* * *

"Warrick - Kessler's next of kin is here."

"Thanks, Gris," Warrick nodded, getting up from his desk. "I'm surprised it took a couple of days."

Grissom shook his head. "He's very lucky he could get here this fast. Theodore Kessler is a naval captain - he was at sea, and couldn't leave until naval command was able to send a helicopter to intercept his submarine," he explained as the two CSIs headed down the hall.

"Gotcha," Warrick nodded. They stepped into an interview room to find the officer waiting.

Captain Kessler was a tall man, easily 6'7", with sandy blond hair. A tattoo of a dolphin just above his right wrist peaked out beneath the sleeve of his khaki uniform. He stood as the two CSIs entered. "Gentlemen," he nodded.

"Captain Kessler," Grissom nodded. "I'm Gil Grissom, and this is Warrick Brown - we're very sorry about your brother."

"Please, it's just Ted," the younger Kessler brother nodded. "And thank you. What happened to Tony, if I may ask?"

"We're still assembling all of the details," Warrick said. "But he was found hanging in his office on Friday night."

"Murder or suicide?" Ted asked.

"Murder," Grissom replied. "We've found evidence that he struggled with his attacker."

Ted shook his head. "Tony, Tony, Tony - I wouldn't have thought that even _you_would manage to piss someone off that bad..."

"Could you tell us about your brother?" Warrick asked. "We're having trouble finding anyone in the Vegas area who was close to him."

"I'm sure you are - I would be very surprised if there were anyone for you to find," Ted said, raising an eyebrow. "Make no mistake, I loved my brother - there's not a whole lot I wouldn't do right now for one more night knocking back a beer and watching the baseball game, or one more camping trip, or getting my ass kicked in one more chess match. But my love for Tony didn't blind me to the fact that he was an ass, nor did it stay me from telling him so on more than one occasion - if your brother can't tell you when you've gone and screwed the pooch, who can? We've had some pretty good arguments over the years, but we've always hugged and made up afterward. My wife, on the other hand, with the exception of a couple of funerals, hasn't been in the same room with him since about a year after we were married, and, considering how he spoke to her, I can't say that I blame her any - when I went to visit Tony, Laura'd go on a girls' weekend with her sisters. Tony had never met our three small children, and Laura and I had no intentions of changing that any time soon. I loved Tony enough to put up with a certain amount of his bullshit - more of it than I probably should have - but I wasn't going to expose Zanni, Patrick, and Reggie to it, or make Laura feel obligated to be in a situation she wasn't comfortable with."

"When you say he was an ass, what do you mean?" Grissom asked.

"I mean that he had a hard time forming healthy relationships of any kind with people, and he did not typically treat others with respect. He was rude, demanding, demeaning, and often came across as egotistical. And, quite frankly, he was blatantly prejudiced - against anyone with more melanin than him, or more X chromosomes than him, or of different sexual preference than him. And I told him, more than once, that all of that was assinine, and that he was too intelligent for that sort of idiocy."

"Why did he treat others that way?"

"Bearing in mind that I'm a skipper, not a shrink? My guess is childhood trauma. But that's a reason, not an excuse - Tony was more than old enough to take responsibility for his actions. He was a man, not a boy. But when we were growing up, our father was abusive, both physically and emotionally, to our mother. He never hit us kids, but he did tell us how worthless we were early and often. As you can imagine, that isn't a healthy environment for a child. As I grew up, I vowed that I would never be that man. But Tony... I think he internalized a lot of it. He developed a very deep need to be dominant over others. I never saw him inflict violence on so much as a fly - indeed, even cartoon violence in the media was quite traumatic for him; he seldom watched any television aside from ball games and science documentaries even as an adult - but he had to be... psychologically above others, to strike the first verbal blow before he could become a victim. The only two women I ever saw him treat with respect and dignity were our mother and our sister, his twin, Victoria. Mom died of cancer four years ago, and Tori died in a car accident when she was only 25. I was just about all Tony had left."

"Were you aware that your brother was in the habit of using small doses of methamphetamine and related drugs?"

"I was not, but I can't say that I'm terribly surprised," Ted said, shaking his head. "Tony's life was his research, he felt most... alive, most whole, when he was in the lab. Even in grad school, he'd use caffeine to stay up until dawn, and then sleep until noon, only to do it all all over again that night. He drank more Red Bull than an angsty teenage goth. I doubt he was looking for a high from the meth, so much as for an energy spike." He shrugged. "Some people try to drink their troubles away - my brother tried to work his troubles away. It was just about exactly as effective."

"When did you last speak to Tony?" Warrick asked.

"Some time ago, just before I left port - I'm not at liberty to tell you precisely where our sub has been or what we have been doing there, but, suffice to say, our mission parameters required strict radio silence. We just got back into nonclassified waters on Thursday, and even then, we weren't able to get to periscope depth to use the comms. Until today in an airport, I hadn't spoken to my wife in two months. I last spoke to Tony... UNLV's term was just beginning, so maybe 12 weeks ago now? We shot the breeze for a couple of hours, talking about nothing and everything."

"Did he seem normal then?"

Ted nodded. "Normal for Tony, at any rate." He paused. "Would it be possible for me to see him?"

Grissom nodded. "Yes. Right this way."

As Grissom stepped out of the morgue to give the two brothers some privacy, he heard a quiet sniffle.

"Well, bro... it isn't a chess board, but it will have to do..."


	12. Chapter 11: Another Day, Another Crime

**Chapter 11**

Catherine and Greg sat on one side of the table. On the other side sat Dominic Hale and one of the local public defenders. O'Riley stood nearby. Dominic's fingertips had progressed from compulsively tapping to out-and-out trembling. He was stick-thin, and it was a fair bet he didn't typically get enough to eat.

"You guys willing to talk about a plea bargain?" Thompsen asked, looking at the two CSIs. After hearing the blood and fingerprint evidence the CSIs had, only a fool would advise a plea of 'not guilty'.

Catherine nodded. "Certainly. How generous depends on how big Mr. Hale's role in all this was, and how helpful he is prepared to be."

Thompsen turned to Dominic. "What do you say, Son?"

"Look, I'll cooperate - I thought the idea for that stunt was nuts anyways - but please, c-can I get a cup of coffee or something? I feel all light-headed." The game up and his goose cooked, Dominic had dropped the surly facade. He'd gone from trying and failing to be another recalcitrant thug to succeeding at being a desperate, contrite, lost, and hopeless kid, probably not more than 22 years old.

Greg got up and stepped out of the room, then returned a moment later with a 16 ounce bottle of apple juice and a paper plate with a roast beef and cheese sandwich with spinach and tomato, and some carrot sticks, along with a couple of Oreos. "Your blood sugar is probably low," he said, setting the food in front of Dominic. "Natural sugars are a much better energy source than caffeine."

"Thanks," Dominic nodded, eagerly digging in as if it were the first meal he'd seen in days - which was a distinct possibility. It wasn't the stimulant he'd been hoping for, but as hungry as he was... he'd take it.

Greg waited until Dominic was finished eating. "How long have you been using meth, Dominic?" he asked.

"How did you..." Dominic began before Thompsen could even offer an opinion on whether it was wise to answer. "About three years," he sighed. "Stupidest decision of my life - I've tried a couple times to kick it, but I've come right back within a week."

"What happened Friday night?" Catherine asked, her predatory tone softening slightly.

"I ran out of money for buying crank about... two months ago, I think? And with no job, my prospects of getting more weren't so good. But Jazz said she could help me with that."

"Jazz got a last name?" O'Riley asked.

"I'm sure she does, but I couldn't tell ya what it is - we aren't exactly on a last name basis, if you catch my drift. Actually, I wouldn't even count on that being her real first name; it's probably a nickname. Anyways, she told me that if I'd work for her, she'd pay in speed. I asked her what kind of work, 'cause I didn't want to do stuff that would hurt anybody, and she said, no, nothing like that, this'd just be buying sudafed, carrying stuff for her, that kind of thing. Maybe a few other tasks to be determined. That sounded like a pretty good deal to me, so I took her up on it." He shrugged. "It worked out pretty good - she gave me ice, and I spent what little money I could get on food. But then last week, she gave me some ice; asked me to try it out - she said it was a new recipe."

"How was it?" Greg asked.

"When I first took it, it seemed like nothing was happening - Jazz said to give it a little while longer, that this new stuff might take some time to warm up. It eventually did kick in, but it definitely wasn't as strong as the real deal - sorta like crank's baby brother. It was better than nothing though. I told her I'd use it, but if any of her sales associates on the street tried to sell it to paying customers as the real McCoy, there'd be some problems with customer satisfaction. She, Snap, her dealers, and I had already bought our limit of sudafed for the month, so she said we wouldn't be able to make any of the good stuff for a few more weeks unless she could come up with a backup plan."

"Who's Snap?" O'Riley asked.

"I don't know his real name - he got the nickname from the crocodile tattoo on his back - but he's Jazz's boyfriend. He does most of the actual manufacture - he and Jazz both say I'm too much of an idiot for that, or for sales either."

"So... The break-in was Jazz's back-up plan?" Catherine asked.

Dominic nodded. "She said that she had a way to make premium ice - she said if we were selling that, she'd be able to afford to pay me in speed _and_money. I might actually be able to eat properly. When I asked her how, she said the lady of the house was a doc, and she could get us the stuff we'd need, but she'd need some... convincing. When she told me how we had to convince her, I told her she was crazy - I wasn't gonna hurt little kids. I'm a lotta things, and some of 'em, I ain't proud of, but I'm not a monster."

"What did Jazz say to that?" Catherine asked.

"She told me not to be even stupider than usual - of course we wouldn't hurt the kids. They'd be asleep, so we'd just take them to her place - she said she had toys, diapers, baby formula, Mac-n-cheese for the girl, and everything. Then, when their Mom gave us a couple of prescription pads, they'd go right back home. I made her promise me a dozen times we wouldn't hurt the kids, and I still didn't feel good about it, but I was _desperate_for some ice. When Snap and I got there, though, the Mom said the kids were at their grandma's - Snap said he didn't believe it, but when we got back to their room, they weren't in there, so I guess it was true. Snap called me a sissy because I couldn't make myself hit the parents, but I was secretly really glad that the kids weren't home."

"Did Snap hit the parents?"

Dominic nodded. "He went psycho in there. Meth just makes me feel... like all my dreams could really happen, I guess. It makes me feel like I can accomplish something, create something, _be_something. But it makes Snap really mean, aggressive - when he's tweaking, he's like an angry pitbull."

"Does Jazz use drugs too?" Greg asked.

"Yeah - she goes up and down like a yo-yo. Most people like either uppers or downers, you know? Me, I'm more than good enough at being down all by myself - that's why I tried meth in the first place, someone told me it'd make me less of a failure. Instead, it made me more of one. But Jazz? One day, she's dazed out on Xanax and codeine or oxy and feeling no pain, and the next, she's tweaking with me and Snap."

"When did you last have any speed, Dominic?" O'Riley asked.

"I haven't danced with the tin man since that fake stuff Jazz gave me on Monday - by Friday, I was desperate, I'd've done about anything for a hit. But now... what is it now, early Monday? I bought some cheap fast food coffee last night to warm up, and that took the edge off. And my head's clearing up; I think maybe if I can stay clean a few more days, I can really beat the monkey on my back."

"Good for you," Greg told him. "You can do this, Dominic."

"Thanks," the young man nodded.

"Well, if you can't give us real names, can you at least tell us what Jazz and Snap look like?" Greg asked.

Dominic nodded. "Snap is about your height - he's got brown eyes so dark they're almost black, dark spiky hair, and a goatee. He likes his bling, wears a bunch of diamond studs in one ear, three gold hoops in his eyebrow, and heavy gold chains. He'll tell you his watch is a Rolex, but it's probably a cheap knock-off. And he's got a tattoo of a snake coiled up one arm, across his chest, and down the other. And the tattoo on his back, a crocodile about to bite."

Catherine nodded. "All right. And Jazz?"

"She's shorter, maybe 5'4"? It's hard to say 'cause she ALWAYS wears spiky heels. She dies her hair red - I don't mean like a carrot top, this is almost more like a purple. You know that maroon-colored cake with the ivory icing they have around Valentines Day - red velvet, I think it's called? That color. Some chicks can make that color look good, but man, she ain't one of 'em. She's always got it done up real fancy; you can smell the hair spray from a mile away. And her nails are always painted up real fancy too - if she chips one, you'd think someone had just kicked her in the balls she doesn't have, the way she carries on. Wears designer clothes, and her purse must've cost $500."

"Thanks," O'Riley nodded.

"Hey, can you guys do me a huge favor?" Dominic asked suddenly.

O'Riley raised an eyebrow. "Depends on what it is."

"Can you put me in jail?"

"Dominic, I've been in this job a long time, and not too many people have ever called that a favor," O'Riley replied. "Why do you want to be in jail?"

"Three reasons. One, being in jail means a bed, three meals a day, and heat - any one of those things is more than I've had in a long time. Two, I'm serious about wanting to clean up, and if someone offered me speed, I wouldn't trust myself not to take it right now and start dancing with the tin man all over again. And three, if Jazz and Snap find out I've been talking to you guys... there are two possibilities - either I'll be a dead man, or I'll wish I was. I live in my car, but I can't afford to put gas in it, so it's in the fast lane to nowhere, and they know where it's parked."

O'Riley nodded. "Fair enough. We have enough to hold you."

"Dominic," Catherine said. "There's something you should know. Max and Millie weren't visiting their grandma on Friday night - they were home."

A look of horror etched itself on the young man's face. "What? Snap went looking, and there was no one there! He didn't hurt them, did he?"

Greg shook his head. "No. They're safe. Millie heard the commotion in the living room. She got scared, grabbed her baby brother, and ran. They slipped out through the garage; a passerby found them and notified authorities."

Tears were streaming down Dominic's face. "Oh God... She must've been so scared," he sobbed. "I... I _am_ a monster. Can... Can you tell her I'm sorry?"

* * *

"Dominic Hale is a match to one of the bloodstains found at the Pratchett residence - the one on the broken glass. He is not a match to the stain that tested positive for stimulants."

"Makes sense - from what he told us, he hadn't smoked any for a few days," Catherine nodded. "He's probably the one who busted in the window, though. Thanks, Mia."

"Any time."

* * *

"Grissom," the CSI supervisor said, answering his cell.

"Dr. Grissom? It's Amelia Ravi. Can... Can you come down to my office? Please?" The fear was palpable in the young woman's tone. Missy could be heard whimpering and whining in the background.

"We'll be down there in fifteen minutes. Are you safe, Amelia?"

"Yeah - Chris is with me."

"Good. Stay together - we'll be right there." Returning the phone to his pocket, he sprinted down the hall to the break room. "Warrick - grab your kit. NOW. We're headed back out to UNLV."

Warrick jumped up, leaving a half-finished sandwich on the table. "What's going on, Gris?" he asked, heading for the door.

"I'm not sure, but it had Kessler's TA scared enough to call - come on, I'll call UNLV PD on the way and make sure they're on the scene."

* * *

Heading down the hall to Amelia's office, Grissom and Warrick found the hallway blocked off in either direction by UNLV PD officers. "Thanks, Ericcson," Grissom nodded to the chief as he and Warrick passed by.

The CSIs found Amelia parked some fifty feet from her office door with a remarkably flat tire. She seemed remarkably unconcerned about the tire, however, as she tried to calm her frantic dog, inspecting Missy's left front paw. Chris stood over her shoulder, directing a small flashlight on Missy's paw. Amelia looked up at the approaching criminalists. "Mind the minefield by the door," she said, her voice now slightly less shakey than it had been on the phone. "Used staples and green glass - damn near impossible to see on these mottled green floor tiles, as Missy and I already discovered."

"You two okay?" Warrick asked.

"I'm mostly just shaken up, but Missy's got a cut paw. Missed the pad, fortunately, but it's bleeding pretty good," she said, applying pressure with a napkin.

"Any other surprises?" Warrick asked.

"See for yourself," Chris said, nodding towards the office.

"Damn," Warrick observed, looking over. The door hung halfway off its hinges. A noose made of blue braided nylon rope hung from the ceiling.

Amelia sighed. "All right, I think it's stopped bleeding," she nodded.

"Can we have that napkin?" Warrick asked. "We'll need to verify that any blood we find is Missy's."

Amelia nodded. "Of course." The bloody napkin was soon sealed away in an evidence bag.

"Is there anywhere we can talk?" Grissom asked.

Chris nodded. "Let's go to my office."

Grabbing her crutches from a holder mounted to the frame of her chair, Amelia got unsteadily to her feet. She walked with pigeon toes and a scissor gait. "Can you get my chair, Chris? It won't go anywhere with my weight until I fix that tire."

"Of course, 'Melia," Chris nodded.

"Come on, Missy-Dog," Amelia said. The dog heeled, carrying one paw.

Steering Amelia's chair with one hand and taking a caribiner with a large ring of keys from his belt loop with the other, Chris led the way down a short side corridor to his office. "Here we go," he said, unlocking the door and leading everyone in.

"What happened, Amelia?" Grissom asked once everyone was settled.

"We spent the evening working on research up in the lab - separate projects, but we have bench space in the same lab. When we came back downstairs at about 2:00, Missy yelped as we got to my office, right about the time my left wheel deflated. I figured dumb luck - someone had dropped a flask or something - for about two seconds, until I saw the busted door. At that point, I called you."

"When had you last been in your office?" Warrick asked.

"I was in there working on stuff for ScienceALIVE! until about 8:00 when Chris got in - my lab work required some set up that I just can't reach."

"What IS ScienceALIVE! exactly?" Grissom asked. He'd noticed that both TAs were wearing matching shirts with a brightly colored logo of the same name.

"It's a cross-disciplinary educational outreach program run by TAs from the physics, chemistry, and biology departments," Chris replied. "We do interactive presentations of fun science experiments at local schools twice a month or so. Amelia handles most of our logistics like planning, scheduling, and ordering supplies."

"Gotcha," Warrick nodded. "Sounds like a really neat program."

"It is," Amelia agreed. "The kids really enjoy it. Anyways, we headed upstairs when Chris got in, and didn't come back down until just before I called you." She shuddered. "That blue noose, just like the other one... it REALLY freaked me out."

"I'm sure it was supposed to," Grissom nodded. "Someone was trying to scare you. Do you live alone, Amelia?"

She nodded. "Just me and Missy."

"You might want to stay somewhere else for a few days."

Amelia sighed. "That could be a challenge - not too many places have a toilet I can use properly," she said wryly. She turned toward Chris, who didn't even wait for her to ask.

"I'll come crash on your futon - anyone who cares to drop in uninvited is welcome to see my collection of black belts."

Amelia smirked. "Thanks, Chris – you're my hero. Just for you, I'll even drop the heat on the curry down to Spontaneous Combustion," she grinned, the relief clear in her eyes.

"What's it at normally?" Warrick asked.

"Nuclear Fusion," the two physicists answered in unison.

"Nice," Warrick laughed. "We'll need to process your chair for evidence, Amelia," he said.

She nodded. "I'd figured - I'll patch that tube as soon as you're done."

"Will you need to get into your office for the patch kit?" Grissom asked.

"Nope - there's a bag hard-mounted under the seat with a kit, a multi-tool, and an air pump. Those who depend on wheels to get around are wise to be prepared."

"Gotcha," Warrick nodded, getting out his kit and kneeling down next to the wheelchair. "Are these bike brakes standard?" he asked, curious.

"Nope - installed 'em myself," Amelia laughed. "Along with the custom paint job, the crutch holder, and a few other odds and ends. I call it Frankenchair for a reason," she snickered. "My uncle started showing me how to do my own maintenance work when I was eleven years old, and I had a part time job in his shop as soon as I was old enough for him to legally hire me." On closer inspection, the blue chair had red, yellow, and green fish painted on the frame, and the crutches had been painted in stripes to match. Presumably for night time visibility, there were yellow, red and green LEDs fitted to the spokes.

Warrick carefully extracted a staple from the left tire with forceps, followed by two shards of green glass. "No wonder your tire went flatter than a pancake," he observed. "What are these quick-release clips for?" he asked, nodding to the connections hard-mounted under the armrests.

"Missy is half sled dog – most malamutes love to pull, and her favorite thing to do is pull my chair like a sled. I've got a homemade frankenleash with four caribiners and a bunch of bungee cords that connects to her bracing harness to control inertia, and the quick-releases let me disconnect in a hurry before one of us falls if we hit a rock or something. It can be useful when I'm really hurting, and it lets her burn off some energy in the park."

"Makes sense," Warrick nodded, swabbing a couple of bloodstains on the chair – most likely Missy's.

Grissom knelt down beside the dog, who was licking at her injured paw. "Let's see that paw, Missy," he said quietly, scritching the dog behind the ears. "That's it, girl – I won't hurt you..." he said gently. He found what he was looking for – a (fortunately) blunt rounded piece of glass caught in the webbing of her paw, and a forming scab on her cut toe. "Good girl," he said, giving her a final scritch as he stood up. "Is she going to be okay walking on that?" he asked Amelia.

"I think so – it's not on the pad, and I think it's mostly superficial. I'll get some antibiotic ointment on it when we get home," Amelia nodded, fishing a dog treat from her pocket and giving it to her faithful friend. "If it's swollen or inflamed in the morning, I'll take her to the vet to get it looked at. She'll be on light duty for at least a few days, though – that means no helping my sorry ass off the floor."

"What kind of locks are on these doors?" Warrick asked, standing up now that he'd collected all of the evidence from the chair.

"Just the standard ones built into the handles," Chris said, shaking his head. "The one thing of note about Amelia's is that it's modified to have a lever instead of a knob so that Missy can open it from the inside, but the locking mechanism is the same. It'll keep someone from casually waltzing in, but I doubt it would be that hard to bust down – and I think we were the only ones in here tonight, so there'd be no one to notice the commotion."

"Did either of you go into the office at all when you came back down stairs?" Grissom asked.

Amelia shook her head. "We backed off as soon as we saw... that. I pulled out my cell and called you while Chris got a first look at poor little Missy-Dog."

"I know that exams start tomorrow – is there anything you'll need from your office in the next couple of days? I can't promise anything, but we can try to rush processing for you," Warrick said.

She shook her head. "Thanks, but I should be good – my exams, grade book, research data, and ScienceALIVE! records are all on my laptop, which was with me. I've got back-ups on the campus network and on a jump drive at home in any case."

Grissom nodded. "I'm afraid your office is a crime scene until further notice – don't go in there until we tell you otherwise, please."

"Understood," she nodded. "If you need to find me on campus in the meantime, I'll be in here, up in the lab, orcampedout in thedepartmentlounge," she said, her speech starting to slur slightly.

"You're exhausted, Amelia," Chris observed. "Time to get you home and get some sleep." He turned to the two CSIs. "If you don't need us any further?"

Grissom shook his head. "You go get some rest – we'll take it from here."

* * *

"Someone is an asshole," Warrick observed as the two CSIs stepped into Amelia's office after tape lifting the debris field of staples and glass shards outside the door. That rope isn't tied off to anything; it's just duct taped to the ceiling – Amelia's pretty small; I doubt she wears more than a hundred pounds or so, but there's no way that would hold her weight. It was just put there to scare the crap out of her and keep her from talking to us."

"First part of the plan worked," Grissom shrugged, carefully inspecting the door before plucking something from the frame, and then swabbing it. "Got a long burgundy hair here, and a smudge of what is probably make-up," he observed.

"Sounds like someone shoulder-rushed the door," Warrick nodded. "Like in the movies. They'll probably have some bruises to show for it tomorrow." Standing on tiptoes, he managed to reach the silver tape on the ceiling and removed it with a pair of forceps. "Jackpot," he grinned. "Fingerprints and epithelials in the adhesive – someone seems to have some dry skin with all this winter weather."

Spying a reflection in a wastebasket, Warrick stepped over. "Hey, Grissom – look familiar?" he smirked wryly extracting part of a wine bottle – the neck was still intact, but the bottom had parted company, and the remainder of the side was a small area of jagged pieces held together only by the label. "Screw cap and everything," he said, turning it over to read the label. "Roxanne's Sweet Red... this stuff retails for about two bucks a bottle. Salted cooking wine probably tastes better."

"Dust it for prints," Grissom nodded, stepping over to the desk. "Warrick... come see this..."

"People still _do_ that?" Warrick asked. l

Grissom nodded. "Apparently, at least one person does," he said, staring at the note written from pasted letters cut from magazines.

_*Kessler's none of your damn business, Bitch. So mind yours before you join him.*_


	13. Chapter 12: Daddy Time

**Chapter 12**

Zanni Kessler looked up from her book, pushing her lavender wire-rimmed glasses up on her freckled nose. "Daddy... How did you get back so fast? Doesn't it usually take you days to make it back to port?"

Ted nodded from where he was sprawled on the bed with a book of his own. After a busy morning playing in the water park, Patrick and baby Reggie were napping while the rest of the family read. "Sometimes longer. But I got back so fast because I _didn't_come into a sea port."

"Then how did the Enigma get in?"

"She didn't," Ted laughed. "She's still out in the open ocean, more or less where I left her. I'll go back in a couple of days, and we'll bring her into home port in a couple of weeks, just like we were planning."

"But then, how did _you_get back?"

"Well, the police needed me to tell them some things about Uncle Tony, and they needed me way sooner than I could bring the Enigma into even a closer port. There was already a supply ship on her way to meet us in a few days, bringing us things like food, toothpaste, and toilet paper, but she couldn't get there that fast either. _But_the Infinity had a helicopter on her landing pad. So, the helicopter came to the sub to meet me."

"Did it bring you your supplies, too?"

"It couldn't carry all of them, but I did ask them to bring the frozen burritos - I've never cared for them much, but a lot of the guys love 'em - and the toilet paper, 'cause we were getting pretty desperate for the toilet paper, and the guys deserved a treat. I was standing on the sail helping pass stuff down through the hatch, and I could hear the crew partying down below when they saw those burritos. So once everything was aboard, I handed command off to Commander Franklin, and climbed up into the helicopter. The helicopter took me to an aircraft carrier, where I got on plane that went to an air force base on an island. And the air force base had a cargo plane headed back to the mainland - that was a loooooong flight. Once we got there, I was debriefed so that I could talk to civilian police, and then they took me to a civilian airport, where I had three more flights before I got here," he laughed. "It was a really long day."

"I bet," Zanni giggled, going back to her book. She turned a few more pages before looking up again. "Daddy..."

"Yeah, Squirt?"

"Why didn't Patrick and Reggie and me ever know Uncle Tony? We know Aunt Suzie and Uncle Lee, and Aunt Zoe and Uncle Hank, and Uncle Patrick and Aunt Lexi. So why not Uncle Tony?"

Ted glanced at Laura, who nodded - it was _not_ a conversation he especially wanted to have to have with his eight year old, but if Zanni was old enough to ask the question, she was old enough to deserve some kind of an answer. And not an 'I'll explain when you're older' kind of answer, a _real_answer. "That... is a really good question, Zan-Zan, but it's also kind of a tough one to answer," he told her. "I think I'm gonna need to call in reinforcements on this one."

"Ice cream?" Zanni asked hopefully, knowing her Daddy's idea of conversational 'reinforcements'.

"Oh, totally ice cream," Ted agreed, getting up from the bed. "Get your shoes, Zanni Beth, and let's go and find some," he laughed.

* * *

Zanni happily skipped into the ice cream parlor, holding her Daddy's hand, her braided red pigtails bouncing along beneath her green tweed newsboy's cap with every step. "I can't decide whether I want hot fudge or marshmallow fluff or sprinkles," she giggled. "Do you know what you're getting, Daddy?"

"Yep - a root beer float," Ted laughed. "We usually have ice cream aboard, but we don't get very much root beer for the size of our crew, and I usually let the guys have most of it instead," he grinned.

"That's really nice of you, Daddy," Zanni observed, smiling up at him. Root beer, she knew, was her Daddy's very favorite. The two of them waited patiently while the clerk prepared a massively elaborate sundae for the woman in front of them, who was making a huge fuss and insulting the clerk's intelligence and parentage every time the clerk couldn't keep track of the woman's seemingly endless changed requests about her order, and insisting that she should get her ice cream half off, if not free, for the 'incompetent service' - the poor girl behind the counter looked ready to cry.

At last handing the gargantuan waffle bowl to the angry woman, the clerk turned to Zanni and managed to conjure up a smile from somewhere. "What can I get for you, sweetheart?"

"I'd like a kiddie sundae with cotton candy ice cream and rainbow sprinkles, please, Miss, and a small Shirley Temple. Oh, and may I please have an extra cherry in my drink?"

"Certainly, Sugar, since you asked so nicely," the clerk laughed. "How about you, Daddy?"

"I'd like a medium root beer float with whipped cream, please," Ted grinned, pulling his check card out of his wallet.

"Coming right up," the clerk grinned, good spirits restored by the simple power of polite, friendly customers. "That'll be $7.50, please," she said, taking the card and flipping it over. "I'll need to see some ID, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Ted grinned, fishing his military ID from his wallet and showing it to her. "Thanks for checking, and for asking - too many people don't, which rather defeats the purpose."

"No problem - with your discount, your new total is $6.75."

"Great, thanks!"

The previous customer had been nearly to the door, but spun angrily on her spiky stiletto heel. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you whore? Why did you give that dumbass a fucking discount and not me, you little bitch? I'm gonna beat the shit outta you! And if I chip a nail doing it, I'll sue your ugly ass for every lousy penny you have."

Ted turned to his daughter. "Zanni, honey, go and sit down," he said, nodding to the booth at the back of the store. With that, he placed his imposing 6'7" frame between the rude customer and the clerk. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you not to speak that way in front of my daughter. I received a discount because I am active-duty military, and it was 10%, not 50%. Please take your dessert and leave, and stop harassing this poor lady, who is only doing her job."

"Oh, a prude, are you?" the woman sneered.

"Not at all. I spend months at a time aboard a submarine. When pressed, I am more than capable of - quite literally - cussing like a sailor. However, I don't do it in front of my kids, and I ask that others not do so either."

"Well, aren't we virtuous?" the woman scoffed. "Some parent you are, giving your kid ice cream and junk food. And people wonder why we have a childhood obesity epidemic... You wanna fight, dumbass?"

"No, I don't. And I sincerely doubt that giving my extremely active third grader, who practically lives on her bicycle, an occasional treat will hurt her any," Ted said calmly. "And you hardly have room to talk," he added, nodding to the sundae the size of the woman's head. "Now, please leave, before I am forced to call the police."

"Whatever," the woman said, rolling her eyes. "What kind of name is Zanni, anyways?"

Getting up on her knees in the booth, Zanni turned around to peer over the top of it. "It's short for Suzanne. Now would you please take your attitude problem someplace else so my Daddy and I can enjoy our ice cream? He's been at sea for more than two whole months, and this is the first day I've gotten to see him."

"Why are you wasting good manners on this cunt?" the woman sneered, nodding at the clerk. "Bet she's on her knees in the back room for dumb pricks like you."

"Good manners are never wasted - they don't cost anyone a dime, and they're one of the few resources we truly have an infinite supply of. The better question is 'why are you wasting life being disagreeable and unpleasant?'" Ted said firmly, taking his cell phone from his pocket. "I will not ask you again - leave now, or I will call the police." He began to dial.

Still grousing to herself, the woman stormed out.

Ted turned back to the clerk, clearing the dialer on his phone and putting it away. "Oy - some people seriously need a lesson in manners and an attitude adjustment before being turned loose on the populace at large," he observed. "Sorry you had to see that, Kiddo," he said, setting a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

"It's okay, Daddy - I knew you wouldn't let her hurt anyone. Still, Patrick doesn't pitch that kind of tantrum, and he's only four - someone needs to teach her how to behave."

"Yes, they do," the clerk agreed, laughing. "Thanks for dealing with her, Captain. Why don't you have a seat with your little girl, and I'll bring you your ice cream in just a sec."

"Thanks," Ted grinned, taking a seat in the booth next to Zanni.

"Here you go," the clerk grinned, stepping over with a tray a few minutes later. "I gave you the hot fudge and marshmallow fluff too, Zanni, for being so patient and polite - if all my customers were as polite as you, the world would be a much nicer place."

"Yay!" Zanni giggled, clapping her hands. "Thank you, Miss - this is going to be the best sundae _ever_!"

"You're very welcome, sweetie," the clerk laughed before heading off to wipe down tables.

Zanni fished the conjoined stem with two cherries from her drink. "Here, Daddy - the extra one is for you."

"Aw, thanks, Zanni Beth," Ted laughed. Their noses touched as they simultaneously bit the cherries off the stem.

"So... Why didn't we ever meet Uncle Tony, Daddy?" Zanni asked.

"Well, Squirt, the answer to that question goes back a long ways."

"Like before I was born?"

Ted shook his head. "Longer than that - before I was born. You know how when I'm not on the boat, I sometimes like to have a beer when I come home from work, but I never have more than one?"

Zanni nodded. "Uh - huh."

"Well, beer, and other drinks that contain the same chemical, alcohol, are a kinda weird thing. Some people think they taste good, and one can help grownups relax. But if you drink too many, it can make you do or say things that you never would otherwise. And if you drink too many too often, it can trick your body into thinking you really _need_it, instead of it just being a treat you like to have now and then. And that can make you do and say those bad things all the time. It's a sickness, and it's extra-tricky, because most people who have it can't see that they're sick, so they won't let a doctor help them. My Daddy had that sickness, and that's why I've always been so careful - one beer tastes good, but I never want to have enough to make me act like someone else, or hurt the people I care about."

"Did Uncle Tony have that sickness?"

"No, like me, he was always really careful never to have too much. He had a hard time in a different way. Children learn a lot of things from their mommies and daddies, and how they see them act."

"You mean like how you and Mommy always say please and thank you to people, so Patrick and I have learned to do that too? And then we'll all teach Reggie once she's big enough to talk?"

"Yeah, like that," Ted nodded. "My Daddy always had some trouble with alcohol, but it got _really_bad right after I was born - when Aunt Tori and Uncle Tony were about Patrick's age. The sickness is called alcoholism, and it made him do some really bad things, really often. He'd say horrible things, even to people he cared about, and he sometimes hurt my Mommy because he couldn't control himself. We loved him anyway, because he was our Daddy, and when he hadn't been drinking alcohol, he could be a lot of fun. But I decided that, when I grew up, I never wanted to be like that. But I think Tony had a harder time with it, because he remembered Daddy from before he was like that, and he was too little to understand what had changed and that it wasn't Tony's fault. So, when Daddy said bad things to him that he really didn't mean, Tony believed him."

"So then what happened?" Zanni asked.

"Well, Tony always had a hard time getting close to people, because even if they were really nice people who would never do that, he was always afraid that they would say something to hurt him. And so he'd usually say mean things first, before they had a chance. He didn't really mean most of them, but he didn't know how to tell people he cared about them in healthy, positive ways and he was scared of being hurt again. The only healthy relationships he really had were with me, Tori, and our Mom. He said things that really hurt your mom once or twice, too, which is why even though she loved him, and he loved her, they always stayed away from each other. And Mommy and I decided that, because he couldn't be counted on to control his words, we couldn't take the risk of his accidentally hurting you kids. But we did let him send you birthday and Christmas presents every year, because it was one of the only positive ways he knew how to say 'I love you' and we didn't want to take that away from him."

"Daddy... do you think Uncle Tony will finally learn to say 'I love you' in Heaven?"

Ted smiled. "Yeah, Squirt, I do - in fact, I'm sure he will."

* * *

Their ice cream long since gone, and their conversation long since turned to shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings, Zanni and Ted left the ice cream parlor hand in hand after Zanni had once more thanked the nice ice cream lady, and Ted had slipped a fiver into her tip jar when she wasn't looking. "Daddy... I have another question..."

"What is it, Zan-Zan?"

"That rude lady said that the nice lady was a cunt. What does that word mean?"

Ted facepalmed. "That, Squirt, is a question that we _will_save for when you're a little older. For now, let's just say that it's not a nice word, and you shouldn't use it."

"Okay," Zanni nodded, satisfied with that answer for the moment.

"And this is why I don't like people swearing in front of my kids," Ted laughed.

Zanni giggled. "'Least it was me and not Patrick - he'll repeat _anything_; he's just like a parrot."

"Very true," Ted snickered. "And you were too at his age - it's a four year old thing."

* * *

Catherine once again knocked on the hospital room door.

"Come in."

"Just a few more questions," Catherine said as she stepped in with Greg. "We've got one suspect in custody, and some leads that are beginning to piece themselves together."

"Linnea," Greg nodded. "We were hoping you could tell us a bit more about your former nurse, Freida Collwell?"

"I can try," Linnea nodded. "What do you need to know?"

"Do you know if she has any particular experience in the area of chemistry?" Catherine asked.

"I believe she has an associate's degree, yes," Linnea nodded. "She has some experience with finance too. Felt I should promote her to manager for that, but I told her that she was hired as a nurse, and a nurse was where I needed her. Our office manager does an excellent job, and doesn't want an assistant. Anything else?"

"Could you tell us what she looks like?" Greg asked.

"She dyes her hair burgundy, and she always wears a ton of make-up and half a can of hair spray – I was forever getting on her about that; that much aerosol can cause serious problems for asthmatic patients. Given the choice between a compound fracture and a chipped nail, I honestly think she'd take the fracture. Whined about having to wear scrubs in the office instead of her designer clothes. Hell, even _I_ wear scrubs in the office – they're comfortable, and pediatric patients find Scooby Doo scrubs less intimidating than a white lab coat."

"I know it's a difficult question to answer, and you've already discussed it with the detectives," Catherine said, "but could you tell us about your attackers?"

Derek nodded. "There were two men. One of them was a smaller black guy, 5'6" maybe? He was about Linnea's height. He was quieter and kind of just hung back by the door – it was like he was paralyzed by fear. I honestly think he was as scared as we were. The other... he was more like your height, Mr. Sanders. Couldn't tell if he was white or hispanic. He had a bunch of tattoos, and lots of jewelry. He was like an animal – yelling, screaming, beating the crap out of us. And berating the smaller guy for not doing anything."

"Thanks," Greg nodded. "I think that's all we needed for the moment. The quieter guy would be the one we have in custody."

Just then, there was another knock at the door and Millie rushed in, closely followed by her Aunt Maggie, carrying Max. "Mommy, Daddy, me and Simon and Sammie baked you some cookies," she laughed. Then she noticed the other two visitors in the room. "Hi Greg, hi Catherine!" she said. "Did you catch the bad guys yet?"

"We caught one of them, Millie," Catherine told her. "And he said he would help us find the others."

"Did he say anything else?" Millie asked.

Greg nodded. "He asked us to tell you that he was really sorry for scaring you like that."

Millie paused, considering that. "Did he _really_ mean it?"

Catherine nodded. "Yeah, sweetie, I think he did."

"Then could you please tell him that I forgive him?"


	14. Chapter 13: Breaking and Entering

**Chapter 13**

"This glass is also from a wine bottle," Hodges said. "Specifically, the _same_ wine bottle which left shards in Kessler's hands before turning up in Ravi's trash can. Jacqui said the prints on the neck were _no t_a match to Ravi, by the way - she's got AFIS looking for a match, but it could be a while. There was blood on the broken edges, but the smear of red material Warrick found on the lip was not blood. Lipstick - specifically, FreyaMae's 'Sweet Cakes Twelve Hour Shine' in 'Sizzling Scarlett.'"

"Thanks, Hodges," Grissom nodded. "Anything of note about the hair and swab from the doorway?"

"The hair is coated in the same FreyaMae products as the one found in Kessler's head," the tech nodded. "The smear is... more cosmetics. To be specific, it's a combination of FreyaMae's 'Spot This' extra-heavy concealer, FreyaMae's 'Liquid Silk' Foundation in 'Locco Mocha', and FreyaMae's 'Heavenly Radiance' blush in 'Fallen Angel'."

"Quite a bit of brand loyalty there," Grissom noted.

"Yes, about that - FreyaMae products have been flying off the shelves to those few who can look at their outrageous price tags without fainting these last few months."

"Oh? Why is that, Hodges?"

"Their PR people have been flooding their advertising campaign with celebrity endorsements - the lead singer of that group Mariposa apparently uses their stuff, as does the female lead of that new movie that just came out... what's it called again? Chick flicks aren't really my genre, but Jacqui would probably know the name of it."

"Got it. Thanks, Hodges."

"Oh, and that ransom-style note? It wasn't discolored by a spill; it's been exposed to chemical fumes. Based on the substances present, I'd say it's likely spent time in a meth lab."

* * *

"The blood from the wheelchair is a positive match to the blood on Glass Shard 2A and the blood on the napkin. And what a bitch the donor must be."

"A very fine bitch," Warrick agreed. "Amazingly cute and very smart - the chair user's service dog cut her paw on a piece of broken glass."

"And here I thought your perp was getting even weirder after the whole pork blood incident," Mia laughed. "Hope the dog is all right."

Warrick nodded. "Amelia thinks she'll be fine."

"Good. Several glass shards from..." she checked the label on the evidence envelope that the individually bagged and labelled shards had been contained in "Shards in front of Ravi's door... also had human blood."

"I was hoping you would say that, Mia - how many donors?"

"Two. Male donor was Anthony Kessler - found his blood on six of the shards. The female donor found on two shards did not produce a hit in CODIS, but it's a match to Bloodstain C from Kessler's office and to the epithelials found on the duct tape and the knots of the two nooses."

Warrick nodded. "Our perp is environmentally conscious - she recycled the same bottle, but she must've nicked herself on the jagged edge. Thanks, Mia."

"Of course."

* * *

"Scott - I didn't think dinosaurs were your style," Drake laughed, nodding at the stegosaurus lunch box on the passenger seat of the car. "I thought you preferred a plain brown bag."

Scott didn't even have to look. "Uh-oh - Annie left her lunch in my car. We've got some time before we gotta go relieve Dan and Molly - I'd better run it up to her."

"You sure?"

"You crazy?" Scott laughed. "Do you want the 38 weeks pregnant lab tech running rampant up there when her blood sugar drops?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Drake laughed, "I'll tag along." Fresh out of the Police Academy, Drake wasn't on solo patrol yet.

* * *

Following their ears to the gentle strains of Johann Sebastian Bach, Scott and Drake headed down the hall to the Tox lab, where Scott stood just outside the open door. "Someone forget something?" he teased, dangling the Dino-shaped box by its handle.

Annie turned around from where she was busy at the computer. "My hero," she laughed, meeting him at the door and giving him a hug.

"I try, my dear," Scott laughed. Taking her hands, he led her in a brief dance to Bach's aria.

"D'awwwww," Drake and Frankie chorused.

Drake smirked. "Better watch out, Scott - if I'm not bribed with coffee, I might tell the guys that you know ballet."

Scott just laughed. "Well, I'm good for the coffee, but I don't care if you tell; half of 'em already know anyhow. How did you _think_we met?" He planted a kiss on his wife's cheek and gave Frankie a quick fist bump. "Now, I'd best go get some espresso into Drake before we head out on patrol, so we'll leave you lovely ladies to your mad science."

Drake waved. "See ya in the attic, Anne Frank," he laughed.

Two hands pointed in near-perfect unison to the sign on the wall while two faces etched themselves into smirks. "_Chocolate tax_!"

* * *

The CSI team had gathered in the conference room to try and piece some leads together. "Linnea Pratchett's description of Freida Collwell matches Dominic Hale's description of Jazz," Catherine said. "And we know that Jazz paid Dominic in methamphetamine."

Warrick nodded. "That's not all - Pratchett's description of Collwell is also consistent with the hairs found on Professor Kessler's body and in Amelia Ravi's doorway, and consistent with the woman Kessler secretly filmed stealing a jar of chemical from the UNLV chemistry department stockroom - a video someone attempted to destroy. Based on where in the room she is and the appearance of the material in the jar, it's almost certainly the missing half kilo of red phosphorous. And we know that Collwell works as a lab assistant for the UNLV chem department."

"We also know that red phosphorous is one of the components used to manufacture methamphetamine from over-the-counter decongestants, and that Collwell forged prescriptions for massive amounts of the drug Adderall, which can also be used to manufacture methamphetamine," Greg nodded. "And with an associate's degree in chemistry, she would have the background knowledge to produce methamphetamine with somewhat less chance of blowing herself up. She also has the financial acumen to coordinate a business."

"And we know that Marcus Wagner died of an overdose of a failed attempt to synthesize methamphetamine from an over-the-counter decongestant," Sara added.

"As well as that he was dealing methamphetamine and related drugs," Nick chimed in.

"We also know that the same drug that killed Wagner also turned up in the blood of Professor Kessler, and Jazz's accomplice, who Dominic said is known as Snap," Catherine nodded. "And that Jazz gave Dominic some of this drug to try, saying that she was out of the correct decongestant."

"And for all that, we have nothing concrete tying Collwell to any of our crime scenes," Grissom sighed. "Without a DNA match to the samples found in Kessler and Ravi's offices, everything else we've got is circumstantial, and we can't get a warrant for her DNA without concrete evidence. It's a catch-22."

"Well, we did find fingerprints on the bottle in Ravi's office," Warrick said. "And Collwell must have a ten-card on file from when she was arrested for the script forgeries. Now that we have reason to think they could be connected by more than a common street dealer, why don't we see if we can narrow Jacqui's AFIS search?"

"Do that," Grissom nodded. "If we can get some concrete evidence, Brass will be able to get us the warrant."

"I believe my ears are red," Brass said, stepping into the room with a manilla file folder in his hand. "At your request, Catherine, I've pulled the records from Freida Collwell's arrest two months ago. She made $10,000 bail; preliminary hearing is set for next month."

"Anything else of note?" Greg asked.

"Here's the transcript from the interrogation room," Brass said, raising an eyebrow as he removed a piece of paper from the folder. "And I quote: 'You *expletive deleted* sons of *expletive deleted*. You chipped my nail! Do you have any idea how much this *expletive deleted* manicure *expletive deleted* cost – Probably not, because you're so *expletive deleted* *expletive deleted* ugly that you have no *expletive deleted* idea of what it is to be beautiful! I will sue your sorry *expletive deleted* *expletive deleted* for every *expletive deleted* penny you have! I haven't done anything *expletive deleted* wrong, and you *expletive deleted* pigs have no *expletive deleted* right to hold me here.' End quote." Brass looked up from the typewritten sheet with a cynical smirk. "You all have got yourselves a _real_ charmer here."

* * *

It was no use. It was after 2:00, but her occasional insomnia had struck again, and she couldn't sleep. Continuing to toss and turn up here would only prevent Brian from getting any sleep either. Getting out of bed, Maggie tiptoed downstairs and turned on a lamp in the family room. Taking a favorite novel from the shelf, she curled up on the couch to read until she could convince her brain that maybe sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea.

She was mentally recalled from Ankh Morpork by a very familiar bark. "Cal?" she called softly.

Upstairs, a door opened, and adult footsteps moved quietly down the hall. "Cal, go find Mama – I'll stay with Max and Millie," Samantha whispered.

The huge dog bounded down the stairs and was quickly at his partner's side, the fur bristling along his back, and his ears flat against his skull. He looked at the front hallway and growled.

Giving the Rottweiler the hand signals for 'quiet' and 'follow,' Maggie crept along in the dark and waited. Sure enough, there was a tinkling of broken glass and a scuffling as someone climbed through the forcibly opened window.

"I ain't gonna ask you twice. Where are the fucking kids?" the intruder shouted.

"Cal, davai," Maggie commanded.

Suddenly set upon by 110 pounds of very angry canine cop out of nowhere, the intruder screamed.

Brian came thundering down the stairs, his service weapon in his hand. Flipping on the light, he found his wife on the floor with a young man in a judo pin, from which he was attempting to escape and going nowhere. Cal stood nearby awaiting further command and growling. A scrap of what was likely the seat of the intruder's jeans still hung from his mouth. "Son, did the two squad cars sitting in the driveway fail to suggest to you that this might possibly be a _bad_ choice of homes to break into?"

Simon stepped up behind his father, a pair of handcuffs in one hand, and a cordless phone in the other. "Here, Dad," he said, passing over the former. "Thought those might come in handy."

"Thanks, Kiddo," Brian nodded, stepping over and cuffing the offender. "Is your sister with the kids?"

"Yep – anyone who tries to mess with them will be in for a world of hurt." Simon smirked at the intruder. "You see, Mister, I'm the least dangerous person who lives here, in that I only know three or four ways to kick your ass into sometime next week. My sister knows fifteen at least, and our folks? I think they've already demonstrated. Seriously, you chose the one house on the block with _three_ cops?"

"Three?" the intruder asked.

"Yeah, I believe the third is currently gnawing on your trousers," Simon smirked, dialing 911. "Yeah, this is Simon Freeman – I need you to get police out to 785 Kirkwood Dr, we've got a break-in. … No, my parents are both cops, I think they've got it under control for the moment. … Yeah, better get CSI out here too."

* * *

As sirens pulled up outside, Simon headed upstairs and joined his twin in Max and Millie's room.

Samantha looked up as her brother came in. "I assume that idiot is now hurtin' for certain?"

"Tore up from the floor up, once Cal was through with 'im," Simon confirmed.

Millie looked over. "Simon... was that one of the bad guys from my house?"

Simon nodded. "Probably, Millie. But don't you worry, Lil' Cuz – Mom and Cal kicked his butt, and now he's off to jail. He won't ever be bothering you again."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Many thanks to my other half, the lovely Mejui, for the idea about the heavily redacted interview transcript.


	15. Chapter 14: Co-operation is Optional

**Chapter 14**

"I almost have to feel sorry for our friend here," Scott observed after Drake had read the cuffed intruder his Miranda rights. "I doubt he was anticipating Cal the Wonder-Dog." He snapped his cuffs on the intruder's wrists, then removed Brian's to give back to him.

Maggie shrugged, rubbing what would be a black eye by morning – she'd caught an elbow in the dark. "If the two squad cars parked in the driveway, one clearly marked as a K-9 unit, didn't tip him off, I think he's beyond all help," she observed, with a smirk over her shoulder in the guy's direction. Squatting down, she rubbed noses with the dog, scritching him behind the ears. "Who's my good boy?" she cooed as his undocked tail wagged for all it was worth. "Yeah, you're my big furry baby, aren't you?"

"Wonder-Dog? Baby?" the intruder demanded incredulously. "He's murderous. That beast is a monster!"

Maggie glared at him over her shoulder, still scritching her dog. "No, he's not – if you want to see a monster, I suggest you look in the mirror."

"You all right there, Maggie?" Scott asked, nodding at a couple of spots of blood on her white camisole and sage green plaid flannel pants and a cut across the dragonfly tattoo on her shoulderblade.

"Yeah, Cal and I both picked up a couple of minor nicks from the broken glass – messy, but not serious. I'll get it cleaned up in a bit."

O'Riley came in the door, closely followed by Greg and Catherine. He circled the intruder, looking him up and down – a large hole in the back of his pants revealing pool ball printed boxers reading 'Big Balls', five diamond studs in one ear, three gold hoops in one eyebrow, heavy gold chains, a very obviously fake Rolex... and on the back of one hand, the head of a snake; on the other, its tail. He smirked. "Why hello, Snap. Nice to meet ya. Your friend Dominic has told us _so_ much about you."

Snap lunged at O'Riley, but was quickly restrained by Scott and Drake, who had him up against a wall before he'd gotten a foot. "That snitching little fucking _pansy_! I _told_ Jazz that he wasn't worth the dumb labor, I _told_ her that if we wanted this job done right, I'd have to do it myself! I _told_ her he'd probably gone whining to the pigs when he wasn't in his lame-ass car this morning, that he was too much of a wuss to make himself useful, but did she listen? _Nooo_..."

O'Riley rolled his eyes. "Officer MacPherson, Officer Harris, I assume you _have_ already read this gentleman his rights?"

"Of course, Detective." Drake replied.

"So he _is_ aware that what he just said can, and most certainly will, be used against him in a court of law?"

"He most certainly is," Scott nodded with just the faintest trace of a smirk.

"Excellent," O'Riley grinned. "In that case, why don't you escort him back to the station and make him feel at home? We'll be along for a chat when we finish up here."

"With pleasure, Detective," Drake nodded as he and Scott escorted Snap out to their waiting squad car.

"Max and Millie okay, Maggie?" Catherine asked.

Maggie nodded. "Yeah – the twins are up there with them, and Brian went up as well once Scott and Drake got here and I didn't need him to cover my ass."

Brian came back downstairs after stopping in the bedroom to grab a t-shirt – the open window was creating a draft. "Max and Millie are fine – Millie's a little shaken up, but Sammie's got it under control; Millie thinks the twins are the greatest thing since sliced bread," he chuckled.

"They still involved in martial arts?" Catherine asked, curious.

"Yep. Simon's co-captain of the wrestling team, and he's still busy with akido and tai kwon do. And Samantha just got her fourth dan black belt in judo – she kicked my ass on the mat last week," Maggie grinned. "That's my girl. She took up ninjitsu a couple years ago as well."

"Impressive," Greg whistled. It was well known within Vegas law enforcement that Maggie Freeman was quite the judoka herself.

"I wonder how that little weasel found out that the kids were here," Brian mused.

"We're not sure yet, but believe me, we intend to find out," Catherine replied. "Did he manage to get past this room, Maggie?"

Maggie smirked. "Nope."

Simon came back downstairs. "Millie's back asleep," he told his parents. "Hey, Greg, Catherine – I promise to stay out of the way and not touch anything, but do you mind if I watch? I'm really interested in forensics."

Catherine nodded. "Sure, Simon – that's fine."

* * *

"Annie, Frankie – can you guys please run a tox panel on this right fast?" Greg asked, hurrying into the toxicology lab. "Catherine and I would like to confirm a hunch about a suspect we've got in interrogation."

"Sure thing, Greg," Frankie nodded. "The GCMS is just about finished baking out the column, so I'll slip this one into the sequence, and one of us will run the data up to you in about half an hour."

"Thanks – you guys _rock."_

* * *

Stepping into the interrogation room, Catherine and Nick found the intruder from the Freeman residence sitting sullenly at the table. O'Riley, Scott, and Drake stood nearby. "Good evening," Catherine remarked.

"Indeed, it is," O'Riley agreed. "Greg, Catherine, allow me to introduce you to Snap – or, according to his driver's license and ten-card, Kyle Underwood. Age 28, with priors for armed robbery, assault and battery, blackmail, public intoxication, driving while intoxicated, and possession of methamphetamine with intent to distribute."

"I ain't done nothin'!" Kyle remarked sulkily.

Greg smirked. "Strictly speaking, Mr. Underwood, yes, that is true. You have not done nothing, ergo, you have done something. I believe Detective O'Riley just explained that, thank you."

Kyle attempted to lunge across the table, but Scott and Drake were faster than he was. "Kyle, I strongly suggest you plant your derriere back in that chair," Scott observed as he and Drake forced the young man back into his seat. "You've already got one charge of assaulting an officer tonight; you really don't need any more."

"So, Kyle," Catherine said, her tone predatory. "How did you learn that Max and Millie Pratchett would be at the Freeman residence?"

"What are you, high or somethin'? I don't know what you're talking about," Kyle groused.

"Oh, I think you do. You see, Kyle, your buddy Dominic has already told us _all_ about what happened on Friday night – we know who you were looking for, and why."

There was a knock at the door. "Speaking of high, I expect that will be our tox report," Greg said cheerfully, getting up and stepping around to the door. "Thanks, Annie," he grinned, taking the manilla folder from her.

"Any time, Greg."

Kyle scowled. "Hey, whore... looks like you've been on your knees for every John in this joint, huh?" he cat-called at the pregnant tech.

Seeing Scott tense, Drake put a hand on his partner's shoulder, lest he do or say something stupid.

Annie merely smirked at the suspect through the open door. "Well, now – I guess that means I'll be having a _much_ nicer time over the next few hours than you will, doesn't it?" With that, she turned and headed back to the lab.

Closing the door, Greg returned to his seat and opened the folder. "Well, well – our buddy Kyle here tests positive for our favorite phenylephrine derived methamphetamine derivative," he observed. He looked up at Kyle. "You _do_ realize that Sudafed and Sudafed PE aren't the same thing, right?"

"I want my lawyer."

"Yeah, that'd probably be a good idea," O'Riley agreed, grinning like the cat who got the canary.

* * *

Kyle had been joined by one of Vegas' sketchier defense attorneys – Raul Kingston was slippery as an eel, and slimier than than a snail, and not afraid to skirt the edge of the law. He was also one of the most expensive lawyers in town. "Do you have any evidence that the blood containing stimulants was left by my client?" Raul asked. "Could it not have been left by Ms. Freeman? She was apparently suffering from insomnia, which, I think we all are aware, is a common side effect of stimulant usage."

"The lab is working on matching the DNA as we speak," Catherine replied. But no, the blood in question could not have been left by Officer Freeman – she is type O-, and her husband and children are all A+. The blood containing illicit substances is B+, as is Mr. Underwood."

There was another knock at the door. Greg got up to go and answer it.

"Very well, but there are many persons with B+ blood – that still does not conclusively prove that the blood was left by my client."

"Perhaps not, but this does," Greg said, returning to the table with another file folder. "Positive DNA match – the blood containing stimulants _was_ left by Mr. Underwood, both at the Freeman residence _and_ at the Pratchett residence. Next question?"

"You have not proven that my client had any intent to commit a crime," Raul said firmly.

O'Riley folded his arms across his chest. One eyebrow quirked upward. "Mr. Kingston, are you suggesting that your client _accidentally_ drove up to a home with two police cars in the driveway, then _accidentally_ punched a hole through the living room window with his fist, and then proceeded to _accidentally_ shout, and I quote, 'I ain't gonna ask you twice. Where are the fucking kids?'? Because, if I were Mr. Underwood, I would consider that a very serious insult to my intelligence. Next, I suppose you'll be suggesting that large quantities of methamphetamine and methamphetamine-manufacturing paraphernalia, _with_ Mr. Underwood's fingerprints, _accidentally_ turned up in your client's car, hmm? Mr. Kingston, I think everyone in this room is smarter than that, so let's cut with the farce, mmkay?"

"Now," Catherine said. "_After_ being read his Miranda rights, Mr. Underwood said, and I quote: 'That snitching little fucking _pansy_! I _told_ Jazz that he wasn't worth the dumb labor, I _told_ her that if we wanted this job done right, I'd have to do it myself! I _told_ her he'd probably gone whining to the pigs when he wasn't in his lame-ass car this morning, that he was too much of a wuss to make himself useful, but did she listen?' End quote. That, Mr. Underwood, leaves us several _very_ interesting questions to start off with. "First off, who is Jazz? And what is her _real_ name?"

"I ain't gonna sell out my girl like that – she may be dumb as a box o'rocks sometimes, but she's still my girl."

"All right, then what was 'this job'?"

"Don't answer that, Kyle!" Raul snapped.

Catherine smirked. "I can see that this is going to be a loooong interrogation. Very well, gentlemen – we've got all night."


	16. Chapter 15: Knotting Loose Ends

**Chapter 15:**

"Did Underwood talk?" Grissom asked as Catherine and Greg stepped out of the interview room after several hours.

"Eventually," Greg nodded.

"It was like pulling teeth," Catherine sighed. "But with a promise to drop the breaking and entering charges and a few earlier outstanding misdemeanors, he finally spilled a few beans at least – he and Kingston were holding out to drop the conspiracy to commit kidnapping, but I told them there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Apparently, Jazz told him that the kids would be at Maggie and Brian's – he doesn't know how she knew that, or if he does, he isn't gonna say. Declined to give us her real name, too – although that, I can almost respect. Alas, our friend Dominic was deceived – Underwood confirmed that Dominic was told that the kids would be fine, but it was never true. Underwood planned to beat the crap out of them if Linnea didn't hand over the prescription pads within four hours."

"I'm not surprised," Grissom scowled. His face flushed slightly, and his fists clenched. It was no secret that people who abused children and the scum who sold drugs to kids were two of only three things that really pushed his buttons. Kyle Underwood... was both.

"What time is it now?" Greg asked, stifling a yawn.

"Just after 8am," Grissom replied.

"Excellent," Catherine sighed. "In that case, I'm going to go home and get a shower – I always feel filthy after sharing a room with Kingston. I'll see you gentlemen this evening." With that, she headed off to the locker room.

"Did Jacqui have any luck with those prints?" Greg asked.

Grissom nodded. "The prints from the wine bottle are a positive match to Freida Collwell. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to locate her yet. Brass has put out an APB, and he's working on getting a warrant to search her place."

"Man, the good news just keeps rollin' in," Greg yawned.

"Indeed. Now go and get some sleep."

* * *

"Put 'er there, Rick-Man," Ted laughed, fist-bumping his son. "You be good for Mommy, okay – I'll be home in just a couple more weeks." Back in his uniform, as his civies were packed in his family's checked luggage, he'd headed out to McCarran International to see them off – his own flight wouldn't leave until 0300.

"Okay, Daddy," Patrick said, hugging his father one more time before boarding his flight back to the east coast with his mother and sisters.

"Where will the Enigma be going next, Daddy?" Zanni asked.

"Off to have some fun for a change," Ted laughed. "We're playing hide and seek with the USS Arrow. The guys are really excited about it. Don't forget to study for this week's spelling test, okay Zanni Beth?" he said, lifting her high above his head and then rubbing noses with her.

"Okay Daddy," she giggled. "I got a 100 last week."

"That's wonderful," Ted grinned. "And my little Gigi," he laughed, taking baby Reggie from his wife. "Try not to scream the _whole_ flight this time, okay?" he snickered.

"Dah," Reggie replied.

"I don't know if that means yes or no," Ted chuckled, handing her back to her mother. He sighed, "I miss you, Laura."

"Aww, I miss you too, hon."

Leaning over, he planted a kiss on her lips to a few oohs and ahs from nearby onlookers. "I love you."

* * *

Nick ran a hand over his stubble – he was not a fan of the five o'clock shadow, but he had to admit it would serve his purposes tonight. Ripped jeans, motorcycle boots, a bandana, a gold chain, a heavy metal band t-shirt borrowed from Greg, and a biker jacket completed the look. He glanced over at Sara. "Um, you _are_ packing heat, right?" he asked, swallowing hard. Her attire was... effective, as far as not leaving overmuch to the imagination - her skin-tight jeans and low-cut shirt looked barely big enough to conceal her own goods, much less a spare

Sara smirked. "Of course," she grinned, putting on a leather jacket.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, but... _how_?"

"Now _that_ is a trade secret of women everywhere," Sara laughed. "Don't drool, Nick, it's unattractive," she smirked. "Truth be told, I prefer that my jeans _not_ come in an aerosol can, but anything else will alas stick out like a sore thumb where we're headed," she observed, touching up her makeup. "All our support is in place?"

"Yep – Drake Harris will be in the bar in plainclothes, and Brass and Archie will be in an unmarked car down the street. Archie's got Marcus's cell phone and the Valkyrie key. At 9:27, he'll reply to the text Marcus received, saying he's stuck in traffic and running late. We'll see how our mark takes it. And if everything goes pear-shaped, we've got a dozen uniforms holed up in the building next door." He took out the last piece of his kit – a small wireless radio. Sitting deep in the ear canal, it was invisible to anyone without an opthalmascope. "One way communication only, unless the shit _really_ hits the fan," he observed. "But it'll let Archie tell us if he gets a text back."

"All right, I think we're ready," Sara observed, inserting her radio in her ear.

Nick nodded. "Let's get this over with," he agreed. "I _seriously_ want to shave."

* * *

Stepping up to the bar, Nick got a beer and sat down in a back corner. He doubted he'd get more than a quarter of the way through the drink, but it was necessary for the look of the thing. Sara, meanwhile, hit the dance floor. Nick was impressed – it wasn't a skill he would have associated with his colleague, but she was quite good.

At 9:15, a woman with dyed burgundy hair and spiky stiletto heels came in and sauntered up to the bar. "'Eh, Juan."

The bartender stepped over. "What can I get ya today, Jazz?" he asked.

"Bourbon, on the rocks – and none of that cheap shit you gave me last time. Put it on my tab."

Juan nodded. "Coming right up."

Sitting down at the bar with her drink, Jazz glared at the door. "Where _is _that little shit?" she muttered to herself. Some ten minutes later, a cell phone went off from inside Jazz's expensive bag. Extracting the device, she checked the message and set to typing one back. "Fucking lazy good for nothing little ass," she groused.

#All right, I've got a text back,# came Archie's voice in Sara and Nick's ear pieces. #Deciphered, it reads 'Fuck you! What part of 'don't be late' did your microscopic brain fail to understand? How much longer will it be? I'm not waiting in this hell-hole all night. -Jazz.# There was a pause with beeping cell keys. #I gotta say, I'm impressed if she can do all that without the key in front of her. I'm sending her one back saying that I'm five minutes out.#

Stepping off the dance floor, Sara sashayed over to the bar and ordered a hard lemonade. As agreed before going off shift that morning, she nonchalantly turned to Jazz. "Oh, I love that nail polish – what color is that?"

"FreyaMae's Red Satin Lust. But honey, I don't think it's your color. You look like you'd do better with a pink."

"I've been seeing a lot of ads for FreyaMae's stuff recently, and I was thinking of trying it. Got any recommendations?"

"Oh, their stuff is the best – I won't use anything else. Fucking expensive, but worth every penny. Here, I can give you a card for a place down on the strip that carries their line." Opening her purse, Jazz took out her wallet and extracted a card Angelique's Boutique, and passed it to Sara, who slipped it into her back pocket. For a brief moment, Sara could see her driver's license. Freida Collwell. Jazz glanced toward the door again. "Where is that guy?"

"Stood up?" Sara asked, leaning on the bar and giving Nick a thumbs up behind her back, safely out of Jazz's view. "I know how that goes."

"If that son of a bitch knows what's good for him, he'll show."

Nick swaggered over, setting a hand on the bar on either side of the two women. "You ladies look lonely. I promise, there's more than enough of me to go around..."

Sara pushed him away. "Fuck off, asshole."

Jazz glared at him with contempt. "If I were looking for a date, I promise, I could find a better one than you. My date will be here shortly, thanks – he's stuck in traffic. The dumbass must not have left on time."

Nick cast a subtle glance at Drake , who headed over to the bar and asked Juan for another beer. "I wouldn't be too sure of that, babes – Marcus Wagner is dead."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Jazz sputtered, even as her eyes went big around as teacups.

"Oh, I think you do... Jazz," Nick smirked. "Or, should I say, Freida?"

Drake stepped over, pulling his badge and handcuffs out of seemingly nowhere. "Freida Collwell, you are under arrest for criminal harassment and intimidation of Amelia Ravi. There may be other charges by the time the DNA lab gets done. You have the right to remain silent; anything you do or say can and will be used against you in the court of law," he said, snapping on the cuffs.

"You _bastards_." She spit at Drake. "You better not have just chipped my nail, you son of a whore."

* * *

"Confirmed match," Mia nodded. "Freida Colwell is the donor for both burgundy hairs found out at UNLV, and for both unidentified female blood donors."

"Thanks, Mia," Grissom nodded. His pager went off. "Brass," he said, checking the message. "Warrant just came through to search her place; Hazmat will meet us out there. Be careful, meth labs contain a whole host of chemical hazards. Let's head out, and give Ms. Collwell a chance to get comfortable in prison orange. Where are Nick and Sara?"

"Changing out of their seedy bar attire," Warrick replied. "They'll be along in a minute."

* * *

"Fill us in, Mira," Grissom said as the CSI crew arrived at Collwell's address.

"We haven't been inside yet, but I'm already 100% convinced that we've got a meth lab here, most likely in the back shed" the senior hazmat operative reported. "The dead spots and burn pits in the lawn are suggestive, but it's the propane tanks with the fixtures turned blue that are the dead giveaway. Thank God the house is surrounded by vacant lots, or the neighbors would likely be sick by now."

"Are we going to be able to go in to collect evidence?" Sara asked.

"Provisionally, yes," Mira nodded. "You'll have to suit up, with supplied air, and go through full decon afterward, and you'll have to have one of my crew shadowing you at all times. Take all of the fingerprints and photographs you need, but no physical material leaves the site without my express permission – anything found in the lab is assumed lethally toxic until proven otherwise. Do not use any household electrical power whatsoever, or any device powered by anything stronger than a 9v battery without the okay from us – there is a very real possibility of explosive substances present. If there is even the _remotest_ possibility that you are pregnant, or that someone in your household is pregnant, you are absolutely not allowed on site."

* * *

"Hey, Grissom, check this out," Warrick said, pointing at the shelves in the large shed out back. "I do believe this is our missing half kilo of red phosphorous. Betcha the acetone, ether, acid and ammonia came from the chem lab too."

"And over here, we have massive amounts of cold medicine packaging," Grissom nodded. "Both regular and PE."

"I'm rather impressed," Mira remarked. "This is about the safest meth lab I've seen. Mind you, it's still an absolute death trap, but this maker knew a _lot_ more about what they were doing than a lot of the ones we see in this line of work."

Warrick nodded. "Our suspect has an associate's degree in chemistry."

"Yeah, I can see where that would be helpful. Incidentally, the house did turn up clean, so you guys can take anything you need from there."

"Excellent," Grissom nodded.

* * *

Grissom and Warrick stepped into the interrogation room where Collwell was swearing ad nauseum at Scott and Drake, who were completely ignoring her and talking about the previous evening's basketball game. Brass came in behind the two CSIs.

"Ms. Collwell, we have a number of questions for you but we'll start with the one that's had me curious for days," Grissom said. "Why the ciphers? And before you deny knowledge of them," he added, placing a s sheet of paper on the table, 'the keys to the ciphers were found in your home, in your handwriting."

"Why do you think? So know one would be able to read it. Duh." She scowled at the room's other occupants. With her makeup removed, a black eye and an abbrasion to her face from her scuffle with Kessler were clearly visible.

"One of the many symptoms of meth use," Warrick smirked. "Paranoia."

"Now then," Grissom said. "Let's start at the beginning. When did you steal Dr. Pratchett's prescription pad?"

* * *

Scott and Drake moved to lead their handcuffed prisoner to a jail cell. "Freida Collwell, you are hereby charged with the murder of Anthony Kessler, threatening Amelia Ravi, conspiracy to kidnap Maxwell and Millicent Pratchett, being party to the assault and battery of Derek and Linnea Pratchett, theft, breaking and entering, being party to the manufacture of methamphetamine, and possession of methamphetamine with intent to distribute. Am I forgetting anything?" Scott asked.

"Yeah – you forgot to kiss my fucking ass, you pig."

"Now, now – the city of Las Vegas doesn't pay me enough for that..."

* * *

Annie made her way back through the lobby after leaving a supply requisition form with the secretary – the day shift toxicologist had forgotten to reorder GCMS vials _again_. She sighed. Maybe he'd finally learn when she was on maternity leave for three months and wouldn't be there to do it for him. She spied an unfamiliar face in a navy uniform and stepped over. "Were you looking for someone?" she asked.

"Yes – I'm Ted Kessler, Dr. Grissom sent me a message saying that he had something for me."

"All right – I can show you back to his office, if you'd like."

"That would be wonderful," Ted nodded. "When are you due?" he grinned. "I've got a little one who's four months old."

"Any day now," Annie laughed. "Preferably sooner rather than later." Coming around the corner, she spied the individual she sought. "There's Dr. Grissom."

At the sound of his name, Grissom turned around. "Thanks, Annie," he grinned. As she walked off, Grissom removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and gave it to Ted. "I wanted you to know, we have your brother's killer in custody. And also that we found that saved as a draft in Tony's email, dated Friday morning. I thought you might like to have it."

Unfolding the printed sheet, Ted read it aloud.

_From: akessler _

_To: CaptainDaddy _

_Dear Ted,_

_How's it going, bro? I don't know when you'll be able to receive this, but I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you today. I also have a request, though I will completely understand if you and Laura say no. Would it be possible for me to meet the kids, maybe at Christmas, or this summer for Zanni's birthday? I promise to watch my mouth, and to be respectful to them and to Laura. I've screwed up in the past, and I know that. But... it would really mean a lot to me to tell them that I love them. Let me know what you and Laura decide – whatever it is, I'll respect that. I need to get to class, I'll catch up with you later. I love you Ted, more than you will ever know._

_Love,_

_Tony_

Ted brushed away a tear with the back oh his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Grissom – this means a lot to me." He could hear his voice cracking, but he didn't care. "Possibly more than you realize."

"Hey... you're Kessler's brother, are you? Well I hope you know your brother was a fucking asshole. I'm glad I killed him."

Ted turned at the voice. "Six degrees of separation," he observed.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Freida demanded, struggling against her handcuffs.

"Yesterday afternoon? Yum Yum Tree ice cream parlor?" Ted said, offering a jog to her memory. "A waitress near tears because you couldn't complete a sentence without insulting her, and an eight year old who told you to take your bad attitude elsewhere?"

"That was _you..._"

"Indeed it was," Ted nodded. "My daughter asked me some questions about her uncle's death, so I took her out for ice cream to give her an age-appropriate answer without confusing her little brother."

"So what now? You gonna beat the shit out of me?"

"No - I told you yesterday, I don't want to fight you, or anyone. I want justice, not revenge. I'll see you when this goes to court."

"Your brother was a sexist, racist, ass."

"I could have told you that," Ted shrugged. "But we're saints and sinners all. And despite all his many flaws, he was loved, and he will be missed."

"Saints? Yeah, right. He tried to blackmail me – blackmail is against the law, you know."

"Yes, it is. But so is murder."


	17. Epilogue: Life Rolls On

**Epilogue**

"I assume you'll be headed back out to the boat soon?" Grissom asked, handing Ted a cup of coffee. The captain was unlikely to admit it, but the chance encounter with his brother's murderer had left him somewhat shaken.

Ted nodded. "In a matter of hours. At least it'll be a fun assignment this time, though I wish Command had waited to schedule it until after my crew had had a chance to see their families." He sipped the brew. "Thanks. I needed that. And that is infinitely better than what we get on the boat."

"One of our CSIs is something of a connoisseur," Grissom nodded. "You don't keep your own personal stash aboard?"

"I could – I do know people who do it – but no. I eat what my guys eat. At the end of the day, I'm no different than they are. I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend."

"J. R. R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings," Grissom nodded.

Ted nodded. "Yes. One of only two books I keep in my quarters."

"And the other?

"A Bible."

"What is the fun assignment, if you're allowed to tell me?" Grissom asked, curious.

"We're playing hide and seek with a destroyer - her skipper is one of my best friends from the Academy, and Jack and I have a friendly wager riding on the outcome," Ted laughed.

"Oh – what are the stakes?"

"We're both diehard baseball fans – I've been a Twins fan since before I could walk, and he's never rooted for any team but the Orioles in his life. We get two tickets to the Orioles/Twins game in Baltimore every year. This year, loser has to wear the winner's jersey," Ted laughed. "And winner gets the right to put the resulting pictures _all_ over facebook."

"Enjoy," Grissom grinned.

"I intend to," Ted nodded. He sighed, finishing off his coffee. "I'd best get back out to the airport, and pray I can get some sleep on the flight out. No nice comfy civilian legs this time – cargo net slung in the back of a C130," he smirked.

* * *

"I'm glad your home," Millie sighed, cuddling up between her parents on the couch. Linnea's staff from the clinic had coordinated with Brian and Maggie to get the window fixed and the coffee table replaced, and the place looked like new.

"So are we, munchkin," Derek chuckled. "We are so, so proud of you for being so brave."

"Catherine told me that being brave doesn't mean not being scared, it means doing stuff even when it's scary."

Linnea nodded. "She's absolutely right. And you did an amazing job of that."

Millie paused, considering something. "Do you think I could invite Carlie to my birthday party?"

Derek grinned. "I think that's a great idea, Millie."

"Hey, Carlie likes science, and Simon and Samantha like science - I bet they'll be really good friends," Millie laughed.

* * *

"Hale – you've got mail," a prison guard said, passing him an envelope.

"Thanks," Dominic grinned. A week clean, both literally and metaphorically, and with proper meals, the road was still a little rocky with the addiction, but he was at last confident that he would beat it. Opening the envelope, he smiled. "Would it be possible for me to get a box of crayons?" he asked.

"You do know they're too soft to make into shanks, right?" the guard asked, looking at the inmate as though he was crazy.

"Of course – that's not why I want them." He showed the guard the piece of paper he'd removed from the envelope. It was a picture of a rainbow. "A young acquaintance of mine sent me a picture, and I'd like to send her one back." His smile grew even wider when he saw the back.

_Dear Dominic,_

_Catherine and Greg said that the reason you fell into trouble with bad medicines was because you needed a friend and didn't have one. I'll be your friend, if you want._

_-Millie_

The guard nodded. "I suppose that would be okay. Nothing scary, though, all right?"

"Of course not – I was thinking of a butterfly."

* * *

"Hey, Skip – welcome back," a crewman grinned as Ted started passing supplies from the Infinity's dingy to the Enigma's sail.

"Thanks, Matteo," Ted grinned.

"By the way," Matteo added. "We saved you a root beer."

"You guys _rock,_" Ted grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ready to go elude the Arrow?"

"Can't wait - they'll never find us."

At last, everything was aboard, and the hatch sealed. "All right, gentlemen, set course for our rendezvous point with the Arrow and dive."

* * *

"Say, Amelia..."

"Yeah, Chris?" Amelia asked as the two TAs and one malador retriever headed down the hall after the last exam of the term.

"After the ScienceALIVE presentation tomorrow, would you... would you like to go out to dinner with me? There's this new Mongolian place in town that I've been wanting to try, and then we could maybe catch a movie..."

Amelia grinned. "I would _love_ to Chris. You up for the new X-Men movie?"

"Oh hell yes. It's a date, then."

"Oh, totally a date," Amelia agreed.

"Woof!"

"Oh, all right, Missy," Amelia laughed. "You can chaperone. But no sitting between us in the theater."

* * *

Lance stepped into the break room where the CSIs and several of the lab techs had congregated at the start of shift. "Catherine, Greg? This came in the mail for you," he said, handing Greg an envelope.

"Thanks, Lance," Greg nodded, slitting it open and reading the letter aloud.

_Dear Greg and Catherine,_

_Millie brought this assignment home from school today, and we thought you might appreciate it. Thank you again for all you've done for our family._

_Sincerely,_

_Derek, Linnea, Millie, and Max Pratchett_

_P.S. Millie got several Magic Schoolbus DVDs for her birthday - her first response on seeing the cover was 'Mommy, Daddy, look - it's Carlie!_

Removing a second sheet of paper from the envelope, Greg smiled. It was written in pencil on lined paper in the painstaking handwriting and rocky spelling of the very young.

_When I grow up I want to be a sientist. Sinetists help peeple in lots of ways. Some sinetists help peeple by lerning new things about how the world works and using those new things to help make peeples lives helthyer and easyer. Other sinetists use sience to cach bad guys and make shure they dont do bad things ever agen. I want to be a sinetist when I grow up because I want to help peeple._

At that moment, Grissom stepped in, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. "Annie will not be in tonight, or in the next three months," he announced. "Erin Grace MacPherson was born at 9:00 this evening, 23 inches long and 9lbs11oz. Whole family is doing wonderfully, and Scott has promised pictures as soon as he gets a chance to upload from the digital camera. They're calling her Gracie."


End file.
